


Dal Segno Al Coda

by Aliax



Category: A Land Fit for Heroes - Richard Morgan
Genre: Action/Adventure, Enemies to Friends, Friendship, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Romance, Time Loop, Time Travel Fix-It, changing the world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2019-07-13 13:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 158,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16019033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aliax/pseuds/Aliax
Summary: Ringil fought and fought and fought, but as he lies dying, he can't say he's happy with the results. So when he's given a chance to try again, he resolves to use other means this time, and to reach for more satisfying goals - starting with not needlessly breaking his own heart.





	1. Ringil

“You know, now that I have time to think about it…” His voice is raspy, and he sounds somewhat out of breath. But he can still talk, which he figures is good enough, for a dying man. He continues, in the same conversational tone, “It all strikes me as quite a fucking waste, really.”

The ghosts standing at the foot of his sprawled body don’t answer - not that Ringil expects them to; they are _ghosts_ after all.

The thousands of mutilated bodies scattered around them don’t answer either. Dead people usually don’t.

The lack of proper interlocutor doesn’t stop Ringil from ploughing on through his steadily more confused reasoning. It’s not going to accomplish anything, obviously, but it’s a welcome distraction from… well, everything. The pain throbbing from the many, _many_ places where he’s been cut. The stench of dwenda blood blanketing the entire plain. The sheer _emptiness_ of the place, now that he’s the only being still living in it - though not for long anymore, as the growing fog at the edges of his awareness indicates.

Technically, he supposes he could count the Ravensfriend as ‘alive’ too. It has a soul of sort, and a name, and most definitely a consciousness! Ringil has merged with it during the fight; he has almost _become_ it, unless it was the blade who became him, he couldn’t tell which, and it doesn’t matter. What matters is the way the entire battlefield became as coolly remote as a chess board, with himself and the Ravensfriend as a single piece, and the Cold Commands at their back to protect their exposed flanks while he and the sword danced their way through the plain, parrying and slicing and dodging and stabbing, as effortlessly and instinctively as though they had been created for this one purpose all along.

And maybe they were.

No, scratch that. They absolutely were. It’s in the Ravensfriend’s name, isn’t it? _I am Carry Me, and Kill with Me_ : it could hardly be any clearer. As for Ringil himself…

 _”There are worse fates than being forced into a place where your choice of acts is limited to those where your soul burns brightest.”_ That’s what Firfirdar told him once, and what he repeated to Dakovash in the end. Ringil Eskiath was born to fight and kill; that’s where his soul burns brightest. Everybody knows that, and even he himself eventually accepted it, embraced it, threw himself into fight after fight, and in the end, stormed down that hill over there, in savage joy, when it was finally time for him and everybody else on this plain to die.

And he did good, too: everybody else is very much dead indeed, and he’s dying. He did better than good; he did _brilliantly,_ if he may say so himself. Could not have done any better in his wildest dreams. Now he just needs to finish dying already, and with him will go the Ravensfriend and the three ghosts, and it will all be neatly tied and done and over for good!

… Except…

If he’s fulfilled his life’s mission so perfectly, then...

Why does it all…

Why does it all feel so…

So…

So... fucking... _hollow?_

Why does it all feel like such a complete, absolute, epically ridiculous _waste!?_

“No sense.” His voice is slightly slurred; blood loss does that. His mind is still fired up, though. Part of it is the krinzanz still burning its last icy dregs in his brain. Part of it is the cool-down from the battle. And part of it…

“None of this makes _any fucking sense,_ dammit!”

Part of it is definitely a growing annoyance. Frustration at the emerging futility of it all is gnawing at his guts as surely as maggots will feed on his dead carcass soon enough.

He raises a hand - or tries to, at least. It won’t come; he shrugs and starts counting anyway.

“Look, one: the whole point of fighting the dwenda back in Ibiksinri was to avoid a full-on war between the League and the Empire, right? Well, guess what? _It happened anyway._ And despite all their efforts to mess with us, they _didn’t_ even have a part in it! We humans did that all to ourselves, on our own! So, you know, big fucking flat-out failure right here!”

That fucking war was _always_ going to happen, wasn’t it? There are always enough people in power who _want_ a war at any given time, because it will be good for their business, whatever that business is.

“Long story short:” - a bitter, bitten edge to his voice now - “there will always be wars, because that’s just how we human beings are wired. We don’t need other species interfering, whether it’s the Scaled Folk, or the Vanishing ones, or even some fucking Warhelm stuck out there deciding for itself that it wants a half-Kiriath empress on the Burnished Throne.”

In the end, all it had taken to spur that new war on, had been something as simple as a motherfucking _earthquake_. Just a common, run-of-the-mill earthquake, and off the Citadel had gone on yet another holy crusade.

_Stupid. So fucking stupid… Fuck you all, indeed._

Ringil briefly closes his eyes. Swallows the worst of the bitter bile rising in his throat and soul. Looks for something else to focus on.

“All right, moving on. Where was I? … Ah yes! Two: on the longer term, I wanted to stop the dwenda from taking over and enslaving humanity again. That’s obviously good, right? Yeah, except to achieve that, I had to _kill them all!_ Now tell me, how and why and in which world is this any better than what they’d planned for us? At least _they_ didn’t intend to kill us _all._ In fact, they specifically meant to keep us alive. Not completely free, sure, but definitely alive. Me, on the other hand…”

Images of the carnage he’s just carved out of the Aldrain army float in front of his mind’s eyes. The reek of it is in his nose, won’t leave until he dies. His clothes are covered with the sticky testament of what he’s done.

“Me, I solved the problem by killing them all. What kind of solution is that? It’s not a solution at all. It’s... It’s the _opposite_ of a solution, really.”

_Should have thought of that earlier, maybe?_

Might have, could have, should have - but in the end, didn’t, and now it’s too late. Now it’s all a big monstrous waste, with barely any rhyme nor reason.

“And best of all, guess what?” His voice is barely more than a toneless whisper now. “It turns out they actually had a point with that whole birthright claim bullshit. They were _really_ trying to go home!”

What the Codes revealed to him has been eating at his heart since he first heard it, but it was easy to dismiss back then. There was no time, no place, to examine it. He played the only card it afforded him, by sharing the truth with the dwenda, in a last-ditch attempt to make them stop on their own, to make them stand down, take stock of their actual situation, reconsider, maybe even look for a better solution…

He’d had no illusion that it would actually work. And even if it had… Even if they had accepted that they were just men, full-blooded brothers to the human beings they were so intent on fighting… There was still a small problem, wasn’t there?

“If they accepted that narrative,” he starts again in a raspy voice, “then there’s the teeny-tiny bit where it turns out that it was men, men like me, like you, like all of us, who screwed them over in the first place.”

Ringil growls, low and harsh in his dry throat.

“That’s what we do, isn’t it? That’s what men do, what we’ve always done: we screw each other over and over again. And then we pretend we’re just innocent victims of the messes we’ve made along the way. And it even almost worked in this case. The Aldrain went away, disappeared into the Grey Places for dozens of thousands of years. Might as well have been dead, for all humans knew! Except--”

He needs to take a pause there, to catch his breath. There’s a weird gurgling sensation in his chest when he tries to breathe too deeply. At the same time, his head swims if he keeps his breathing shallow. Fucked either way.

_Just like the dwenda._

“Except they weren’t, were they?” he starts again. “They weren’t dead. They were just lost, searching for their home, their people. They didn’t remember where they came from, or what exactly had been done to them, but they did know one thing: they’d been screwed over somehow, big time.”

And like anyone who got screwed over, they were pissed.

 _Just like you, Ringil of Eskiath Glades, Trelayne nobility, decorated hero of Gallows Gap - and then suddenly, summarily rejected from society as soon as it was all over, just because you wouldn’t support the ones in power once they tried redefining_ civilians _as your new enemy, and using you as a weapon against them… And of course, there’s always, there_ will always _be that tiny little matter of what you choose to do in the privacy of your own bedroom, with willing partners. If only you’d learnt to rape female slaves by the dozens as any proper man should, then everyone would only be too happy to call you their dear, respected friend. But suck a single enthusiastic cock, and everybody in the League and the Empire wants you dead or worse._

“The fuck.” So softly he can hardly hear himself.

_And it’s not just you either..._

It takes some work to convince his eyes to focus on the three ghostly figures stooped over him.

“You guys, too...” His gaze settles on the ravaged face of the soldier. “You there, the veteran with half your face missing. ‘Do I look like a slave to you?’, you keep asking. You fought all those fucking wars. You defended your home, and other people’s homes. And then when you came back… It was even worse than before. They’d re-legalised slavery while you were risking your life to keep them free and alive, and it turned out that if your family got into debt because you weren’t there to earn money, because you were, you know, _out there fighting a fucking war,_ well… Too bad. Off to the auction block your family goes, and you too as well when you come home. Thank you so very much for your service, much appreciated, no really, we mean it!”

Ringil wants to spit, even if only as a token gesture of disgust, but he doesn’t have enough saliva left for that, and he’d have to turn his head to avoid just slobbering all over himself, and his neck isn’t any more responsive than any other one of his body parts by now. This is all getting seriously tiresome… He once rebuked Hjel for presenting dying as a clean, cut-and-dry business, so it’s not like he doesn’t know about the reality of it, but still, it would be nice if he could just die for good already, damn!

But he’s not dead yet, so he might as well keep blathering on. Passes the time, if nothing else.

He moves on to the next ghost. “You there; Dakovash said you were a smith? Let me guess: they got you to build them loads of weapons and armour, or to repair them, and then they occasionally stiffed you on payment? ‘Ah, you have to understand, times are hard. But as soon as the war is over, we’ll remember your invaluable contribution, we promise, we promise!’ And then the war was over, and your invaluable contribution turned out to not even be enough to spare you the auction block… Classic.”

And then Ringil’s gaze glides to the third ghost, and it hurts, because this one he saw die, just after he’d promised him safety too. He stares into the boy’s face for a long time before he goes on, and his voice cracks around the edges now.

“And you, Gerin… What kind of monsters enslave their own children? So you were a thief, Gerin Trickfinger? Such a big deal…” His eyes sting. He closes them. “Hoiran’s balls... Is this really how so-called civilised people are supposed to deal with thieving _kids?_ ”

It’s a purely rhetorical question. He wouldn’t expect anyone to answer it even if there were someone around to do so.

He blinks the gathering tears away, glares at the angry sky, and its endlessly roiling dark clouds. “And so, you said it too, didn’t you? Just like I did. ‘Fuck them all.’”

The words hang in the foul air, mix intimately, almost accusingly, with the reek of dwenda blood.

“Fuck them all,” he repeats slowly. “That’s what we all said.” He desperately wants to laugh at one memory in particular, but it hurts too much somewhere in his chest. “Hell, I even told the _Dark Court_ to go and get fucked!”

And then sadness sweeps over him again, as the utter _pointlessness_ of it all smothers him once more. “I fought, and I fought, and I fucked them all, humans and dwenda and gods… And for what?”

_For what?_

_… For nothing. That’s what. Nothing at all._

He groans. The frustration and the despair swell and ebb inside him; they will spill out, sooner or later, in all their useless glory. Might as well give them voice already, for all the good it will do. “Where did it go wrong?” he demands of the empty air. “How did it end that way? Nobody wanted this! _Nobody!_ So how did it happen!?”

Ringil knows it’s pointless. He’s even aware that it’s a pathetic stereotype: the dying man, wondering what he could have done differently…

But he can’t help it. He can’t stop his mind from churning on the raw, bleeding question. _Is_ there anything he could have done differently? Anything that could have changed the seemingly ineluctable flow of events?

He goes back in his memory, looks for a leverage point he could have exploited to prevent this whole useless tragedy.

_What could he have done differently?_

… Maybe…

Maybe…

Maybe if he, and Archeth, and Egar and all the others, hadn’t gone on that stupid expedition to the Hiron Isles, the dwenda might never have remembered the existence of the cursed sword of the Illwrack Changeling? And without it, Ringil doubts that Risgillen would have managed to gather the dwenda army he just defeated. The Aldrain are - _no, were, they’re dead now and that’s all thanks to you, Ringil Eskiath_ \- solitary and disorganised by nature. Only the promise of the return of the Dark King could compel them to assemble again, and adopt a semblance of order.

But how could Ringil have thwarted Anasharal’s plan? He couldn’t have stopped the fake Helmsman from falling to the Earth. He most certainly could never have pulled the promise of finding An-Kirilnar out of Archeth’s head once the damn demon had put it there!

He sighs. No, there’s no alternative to be found there.

There’s, however…

He swallows thickly, and it tastes of blood, but he doesn’t care. Risgillen… There _was_ leverage there, wasn’t there? If he’d killed her last year in Yhelteth, then maybe…?

He doesn’t know how many members of Clan Illwrack were left besides Risgillen and her brother, but what he does know is that Seethlaw was the one most closely involved with Cormorion, and yet even _he_ had forgotten about the sword. Seethlaw remembered Cormorion himself; that much Ringil knows. He recalls only too easily half-formulated thoughts and cut-off sentences, painful allusions that spilled out of the dwenda when he failed to keep a tight-enough leash on his words. But the sword? Ringil has no doubt: Seethlaw had forgotten about the sword, just as much as Risgillen or anybody else. If he had remembered about it, then it would have been the very first thing he would have done, as soon as the Kiriath were gone: go back to the grave, take back the sword, and…

Risgillen’s words float into Ringil’s mind. _”Seethlaw thought he saw a new hero in you, but what he truly saw, I think, was this. Your transfiguration.”_ She confessed to it, didn’t she, even if only by omission? Resurrecting Cormorion through Ringil had been entirely _her_ plan. Seethlaw had had no such intention - most likely because he’d forgotten he _could_ even do that.

And if Seethlaw, and Risgillen, of all Aldrain, had forgotten about this, then what were the chances that any other would ever have remembered?

“Shit…” Ringil sighs. “I really should have killed that bitch when I had the chance.” But there’s no bite to his voice, because he knows _why_ he didn’t do it, and he knows that he would _still_ let her go free and unharmed, right here, right now, if he were forced to make that choice all over again. He’s hopeless on that matter - and so further back he must go, still.

Except…

There’s nowhere left to go now, is there?

Nowhere but…

His vision blurs. His voice breaks again as the awful truth rises from the shattered remnants of his heart and memory. “It was all over before we even met, wasn’t it?” It was already all over by the time he and Seethlaw came face to face for the first time, that night in Etterkal.

They were always going to fight. Ringil was always going to try to kill Seethlaw, and Seethlaw in turn was always going to be left with only one alternative: kill Ringil, or try to turn him to his side. From the moment Seethlaw first conceived of his plan, all the way through to the moment when Ishil refused to give up on Sherin, it was always going to come to that point. They couldn’t escape it, because all the cards were laid out long before they even learnt of each other’s existence.

The beautiful face shimmers in front of Ringil’s mind’s eyes. _Seethlaw, you gorgeous fucker..._

“It always goes back to this, doesn’t it?” he asks of the cold, silent apparition. His voice is hoarse as he chokes back the helplessness, the utter unfairness of it all. “If I don’t kill you, then you go on with that repossession plan. If I do kill you… It makes no fucking difference.” A pause. “Not for the better anyway.”

Despair for a fleeting moment.

And then… He blinks.

His heart thuds in his chest. It’s painful but he doesn’t care because… because now he sees it…

He sees it! So bright yet so simple!

“I didn’t _have_ to play along...” He can hear the wonder in his own voice. It’s so obvious, now that he’s realised it! This - _this_ is the pivot point he’s been looking for! “I didn’t have to just stand by and let you do it!”

“Took you long enough.”

The new voice is light, and sounds amused, but Ringil can’t help it. He screams like a little kid.

In his defence, he’s supposed to be fucking _alone_ here! Alarm crackles all over his nerves, and it hurts - oh gods, it hurts! - to raise his head, but it’s a reflex, just as much as the way his long-unresponsive arm tries to reach for the Ravensfriend.

“Settle down,” the voice says soothingly, and its owner must use some kind of magic as well, because a soft invisible blanket flutters down onto, and then _into_ Ringil’s body, melting the fear away - and quite a lot of the pain as well, Ringil notices.

“Who--” He clears his dry throat, tries again. “Who are you?”

A… shape? Yes, a shape more or less made of blurry light comes to hover by his side. It’s as tall as a man, but only very vaguely looks like one, or like anything, to be honest.

“I am the reason you lived and he died.”

Ringil frowns. The circumstances make it plenty clear who the being is talking about, but… “I killed him.”

The being hummed in agreement. “How did you do it?”

“Erm.” Ringil is stumped. “We… fought, and I… won?”

“Ah, but not quite.”

Ringil thinks back to that night. The events have always been muddled in his memory - partly because he was high on krinzanz, partly because he was at least as high on the killing drive, partly because of the multiple injuries and the severe blood loss he incurred… And partly, though he would never have admitted to it until now, because he didn’t _want_ to remember.

He does now, though, so he forces the scraps of memory back to the front of his mind... The mismatched armour.... Seethlaw running towards him in his black leather-like mail... Clash and scrape of steel, Kiriath against Aldrain, again and again... Seethlaw’s blade biting into Ringil’s body, so often he lost count and stopped caring. And then--

“Oh...” Softly, even though the memory crashes into him like a boulder from a catapult. “The shield.” Faileh Rakan’s spare shield. Seethlaw’s sword splitting it in half, ruining it. _The sword remaining stuck to it._

“Yes, the shield,” the being confirms. “It was what gave you the edge.”

Ringil swallows.

“Well,” the voice continues, still as light as ever, “that and his decision to talk to you one last time instead of retreating, of course.”

That's both a kick to the guts, and a hand gripping like a vice around Ringil's throat. He can hardly breathe. He can only close his eyes, as though that could close his ears as well, and stop the terrifying rush of recollection, and above all stall the utterly unwanted unfolding of understanding, which has always been right here, right on the other side of his willpower, waiting for a moment of weakness to take proper shape...

Ringil’s never allowed himself to wonder, but now he can’t prevent it, nor does he care to do so. Why _didn’t_ Seethlaw retreat? The one question Ringil never accepted to confront…

_Why didn’t Seethlaw retreat!?_

He had lost that fight, but he was a warrior; he _must_ have known the difference between losing a battle and losing a war. He must _necessarily_ have known the value of a tactical retreat.

Moreover, he wasn’t just any random dwenda soldier. He was the leader of the repossession movement. He was needed alive by his people far more than they needed Ringil dead. Ringil had personally witnessed him reasserting that authority just the day before!

So why? _How!?_

Tears burn behind Ringil’s closed eyelids. He knows why. He knows how. He saw it in the dwenda’s stance during those last hours they spent together. He saw it again in the empty eyes that night, heard it in the cracking voice...

Seethlaw just didn’t _care_ anymore, did he?

That night, it wasn’t for his life that he appealed to Ringil. As he took his helmet off one-handed, he already knew that Ringil was going to kill him. _”What have you done?”_ Those were not the words of someone who thought there was still something to be salvaged.

Seethlaw had simply stopped caring. And Ringil knows why. He knows it, even if he can’t quite accept it, because it’s...

“Insane.” His voice is barely a whisper, but it booms loud and clear in the stale, death-laced air. It’s insane, and yet Ringil knows it’s exactly what happened: Seethlaw threw it all away - just because of him.

Seethlaw threw immortality - _”so far”_ \- away.

He threw away four thousand years of waiting, of wandering aimlessly around a world tainted by the alien Kiriath technology, its murderous artifacts, its natural-order-defying ways - and with no place anywhere to call home, to find solace in.

Threw away three years of tying himself down to the real world in Trelayne, to its limitations and its inhospitable environment. Of rubbing elbows with the worst humanity had to offer, liars and slavers and murderers.

Threw his entire, precious plan away, painstakingly elaborated and put into place almost all on his own, with barely more than nominal support even from his own sister, and outright hostility from other factions among his people.

Thousands of years of insanity layering itself ever deeper, ever stronger and more intricately, of rage and hate and bitterness towards both humans and Kiriath eating away at his memories, warping everything he thought he knew in large or small ways, all of it eventually culminating in three years of stubborn, single-focused work hanging onto one hope, one dream...

And then Ringil Eskiath.

One last-minute obstacle thrown into a path finally reaching its end. Just one man, who could and _should_ have been discarded with nary a second thought.

But Seethlaw didn’t do that - _couldn’t_ do that. He even told Ringil why. _”I see what the akiya saw. I see what you could become, if you only let yourself.”_ Risgillen confirmed it, too. _”Seethlaw thought he saw a new hero in you…”_

A sob rises in Ringil’s throat, in grief and in horror. Grief for the immortal being whose will to live and fight Ringil accidentally snuffed out. And horror… Horror because Seethlaw had been right all along, hadn’t he? Ringil Eskiath did become everything anyone could have seen, and so much more still. Killing Seethlaw did not prevent that outcome. If anything, it only crystallised it even more surely.

And so that means… “There was no point in killing him.” His voice is too flat, too quiet for the enormity he’s uttering.

“Indeed.” The being doesn’t seem bothered in the least, and that in turn angers Ringil.

“Then why did you let me do it!?” He opens his eyes again, stares into the vaguely luminescent foggy shape hovering over him. “Why did you protect me??”

“You would have died otherwise.” The voice is patient. Ringil is reminded of a tutor explaining the same thing for the tenth time to a dim-witted student.

It will have to do it an eleventh time, then, because Ringil still doesn’t understand. “What did it matter, since it didn’t change anything for the better anyway?”

“It did, to the people who asked me to protect you.”

Ringil blinks.

Opens his mouth. Has no time to speak.

“Never mind that,” the being says airily. “What matters is that it would have been better never to arrive to that extremity in the first place.” A beat, to allow Ringil’s brain to scramble back together. “As you said, you didn’t have to play along. You didn’t have to — how did you put it?”

“Stand back and let him do it.” Ringil remembers.

“Yes, that.”

Another pause. Ringil tries to find a non-offencive way to state the obvious, and fails. “But I did.” He may regret it now, but it’s a done deal.

“In this life, yes.”

Ringil raises an eyebrow. “It’s the only life I have.” As far as he’s aware of anyway.

“Never mind that,” the being says again. “My question is: what would you do if you had another chance at it?”

Ringil sighs in exhaustion. “I don’t know… I mean, I know what I would _want_ to make happen; that part is easy enough. I’d have to find a way to make him stop without killing him. If I can make him give up his plan, then none of this has to happen.”

The being hums. “This is not _quite_ right, is it? There were others, willing to use other methods.”

That’s true enough. There was Clan Talonreach, all too eager to use their ancient weapon. “Yes…”

But… Ringil shakes his head, and it’s funny how it _doesn’t_ hurt anymore. “No. First off, Seethlaw’s the one who got that idea into their head. That’s what Pelmarag said: that they’d all been following Seethlaw until some got impatient. And when their attempt at a more direct approach failed, they all went back to following him. They were never terribly organised, but it really looks like he was still the closest thing they had to a leader, at least on that matter.”

The being hums again, but it sounds different this time, more satisfied.

Ringil continues. “And then there’s the fact that a full-on frontal attack would have inevitably pushed the Empire and the League to unite once again. It would have been the war against the Scaled Folk all over again, and there’s no way the Aldrain would have managed to withstand such a coordinated resistance. I mean…” He raises his arm - surprisingly easily - and vaguely waves his hand around to indicate the plain around him. The thousands of bodies scattered all over the place amply make his point, don’t they?

“Right.” If a voice could sound like it just nodded, this one does. “So the main threat came from Seethlaw of Clan Illwrack, as it should.” The student has properly dissected the problem; the tutor is satisfied. “Now, how would you go about eliminating that threat?”

Ringil feels himself deflate. “I… don’t know.” He really doesn’t. “Seethlaw _lived_ for that damn dream! It was pretty much the only time I saw him excited about anything: when he discussed it.” It’s not quite the entire truth, but whoever that entity is, either they already know, or they don’t need to know. “So…”

He shrugs in defeat.

A long silence settles over the little group. Ringil would love to break it, but he has no idea what more or else to say.

“It appears I did not quite ask the right question,” the voice eventually picks up almost cheerfully. “Let’s try again.” Ringil prepares himself, listens intently. “What would you do about Seethlaw Illwrack?”

Ringil’s heart falls. How is this a different question? How is it supposed to generate a different answer!? He closes his eyes again in dejection. Seethlaw’s beautiful face floats there once more, unbidden...

Beautiful and confused by Ringil’s anger over the tree-stump-mounted heads. _”Is it any worse,”_ his voice soft, so soft, _”than the cages at the Eastern Gate in Trelayne, where your transgressors hang in agony for days at a time as an example to the masses? There is no pain involved in this process, you know…”_

Animated by the rare passion as he talks of bringing his people home. _”Things will change. The Aldrain are coming back, Ringil.”_ And again, _”Buried at the heart of each of us is an ache for this world, for a unity, a certain place to carry in the heart and to return to at journey’s end. When the gates are opened again here, my people will come from every corner and aspect of the marches. They will flock here like crows at evening.”_

Ringil had only thought of what it would mean for humanity, at the time. He had failed to notice the glimpse it afforded him into Seethlaw’s mindset, and from there, into his people’s wishes and fears and desires - all of them excellent tools to use to manipulate others, as so many people, from his mother to Grace-of-Heaven to Grashgal and Flaradnam and Archeth have repeatedly tried to teach him.

He remembers the harsh mask of anger settling over the gorgeous face sometimes, so quick to appear and yet so often fleeting away just as fast... And then in the end, nothing left but a broken, raw expression of pain and desperate rage as Seethlaw kneels at Ringil’s feet in his own blood. _”What have you done!?”_

But above all…

Above them all…

So often that Ringil had not seen, not understood…

Ringil’s heart clenches. He had thought it was just the Aldrain way, that it wasn’t anything about Seethlaw in particular. But then he had met sneering Risgillen, and impassive Ashgrin, and especially gregarious Pelmarag. They all had their moods too, but none of them ever looked as _remote_ and _distracted_ as Seethlaw so often did.

He should have realised then, as he does now: it was not the Aldrain way. It was always Seethlaw himself. 

Ringil could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’s seen Seethlaw look genuinely… He won’t even say “happy”, because that never happened. Just… pleased? Pleased with something that wasn’t his damn plan? Pleased like when Ringil stared at the Aldrain bridge, and called it beautiful - though even then Seethlaw still hadn’t actually _smiled._

In retrospect, Ringil supposes that it explains why Seethlaw was the one who led the reconquering move: because he didn’t seem to have much else to live for.

And suddenly he realises that this is his answer, right there. It flows out of him, as freely as his blood is leaking out of his body, and tears are running down his temples. “I would make him smile.” It’s so obvious. “I would give him something _else_ to live for, so he wouldn’t be so bloody single-minded about rebuilding his damn empire! … Or at least, so he would be willing to, I don’t know, try _slightly less damaging_ methods to get there, than an all-out war between the League and the Empire!”

The blurry being hovering over him hums again. “And… how would you propose to accomplish that?”

Ringil takes the time to think before replying. There’s an easy answer to that question, of course, but every single one of his diplomacy teachers would be thoroughly disappointed if he banked it all on an affair which may very well flicker out of existence as quickly as it came into being. Sex would earn him time, but he would then have to use that time to…

“Learn more,” he finally says, slowly and quietly. It’s always the answer in the end, isn’t it? “I’d need to know more about him, about them all. Understand where they come from, how they think, and what they really want most. Once I have that, I could come up with a way for them to get what they want, without letting humanity pay too high a price.”

That’s the mistake he made, the mistake they _all_ made; he can see it now.

They simply didn’t _listen._

They heard, yes - _”The Aldrain are coming back”_ \- but they didn’t listen. They didn’t look beyond the words to see what motivated the dwenda, and from there what words could be offered back, to maybe defuse the situation, maybe even just a tiny little bit - just enough to maybe squeeze in the beginning of a mutually beneficial agreement.

And why?

Because they thought they already knew. Because they’d already been there with the Lizards - or so it seemed anyway.

It was mostly bad luck, really, Ringil realises now. The Aldrain invasion simply came too soon on the heels of the Lizards’ one. The humans treated the Vanishing Folk the same way they had the Scaled Ones; that was an instinctive reaction, born from learnt terror and defencive reflexes ingrained in the harshest of ways. And so they missed the one fundamental difference: the Aldrain wanted to live _alongside_ the humans, even if on highly unequal terms, while the Lizards had only ever treated men as pests to be thoroughly eradicated or food to be hunted. When it came to the Scaled Folk, it had been an unambiguous “Us or Them” matter: exterminate them or they’d exterminate all humans.

But it hadn’t needed to be so with the Aldrain. As unstable and impulsive as they were, the dwenda could still be _reasoned_ with. They could be made to _listen_ to counter-arguments, to _compromise_ , such as when Seethlaw had chosen to keep Ringil alive, and to let him take Sherin back home.

Diplomacy was utterly useless against the Lizards; it was a concept that couldn’t even co-exist with them. Seethlaw, on the other hand, had built his entire fucking cabal over it - with just enough brute force expended when necessary to back up his words. Three years he had spent negotiating with slavers and merchants and nobles - and with his own people as well, convincing them to be both patient and loyal.

Blind violence had been the only possible answer against the Scaled Folk - but it should not have been so against the Aldrain.

They should at least have _tried_ diplomacy, negotiation, and while Ringil is a warrior by choice and training, he’s also the son of a merchant, and Trelayne nobility, by birth and education. He remembers how easily he corralled Shendanak, Tand and all the others, lined them up and set them all to march to his own chosen beat with barely an effort. Even at the time, he had noticed how it was child’s game to him, something he could do in his sleep, when even someone like Archeth herself, all two-hundred-odd years old Imperial counsellor that she was, had been at a complete loss.

… What could he have achieved if he’d tried that with the Aldrain? If it had only occurred to him to _try!?_

“Would you do it?” There is an odd tension in the being’s voice now. “Would you _really_ do it? Would you willingly consecrate your life to finding a way for humans and Aldrain to co-exist in peace?”

Would he?

Would he fight to figure out an alternative - _any_ alternative, at this point - to the absolute destruction his previous attempt had wrecked upon the Aldrain, to no great advantage to the humans?

… That’s not even a question, is it?

“Hell yes, I would.” For one moment, he even feels something like exultation, at the very thought that maybe, just maybe, everything doesn’t need to have gone so terribly wrong, that maybe something can be salvaged after all, that maybe--

And then he remembers that this is all a purely theoretical matter, and the hope turns into ashes in his mouth. He closes his eyes against the suddenly too-bright light. “It’s too late.” Rough, low whisper. “It has all happened. There’s no going back.”

The glow dims, then, behind his eyelids. He wants to look, but finds he can’t open his eyes anymore. He can’t move, either. He can only feel as something - the Ravensfriend, he realises - is laid upon his body, pommel under his chin, blade stretched out down his chest. _Die with Me where the Road Ends._ This too is part of its name...

And he can only listen as one last whisper filters into the nothingness gathering around him through all his senses. “I will make sure those three are properly released.”

He wants to say, “Thank you,” but he can no more talk than open his eyes or move his hands.

He can only wait.

Wait for the end.

Wonder what it will feel li--

— And then suddenly, he’s standing up again.

His eyes are open to a gloomy daylight. The air is lifeless on his tongue and wet against the skin of his face. There’s a warm, heavy, living weight in his arms.

All around him, the dead marsh is studded with silently wailing abominations.

There are words, too, rolling on their own out of his mouth. “... Trelayne road, and you let me get a full day’s ride away from this shit-hole. Then we can maybe talk about promises kept.”

“Sure.”

… His heart, slamming against his ribcage as it tries to grow ten times larger.


	2. Ringil

That deep, musical voice at his back, drab and cold…

_It can’t be!_

And yet… “Why not?” it continues. “After all, there’s nothing more for you here, is there?”

The universe, pivoting - right here, right now - on the tip of Ringil Eskiath’s tongue, so sharply it makes him dizzy… A precipice, opening wide under his feet, and his answer, already rising in his throat - _”You said it”_ \- the words that will lock him and everyone else on the _wrong path, forever!_

He clamps his jaws together. Grinds the damning words down, swallows them. He hadn’t even truly meant them back then, and he most certainly doesn’t mean them now!

 _Think, Gil! Think!_ He’s had no time to prepare himself for this, but he can’t afford to mess it up! He can’t!

He opens his mouth, lets his lips and tongue wrap themselves around the tip of the truth he can bear to acknowledge so far, trusts them to spell it out in some recognisable form.

“Don’t be stupid.”

… Not the best answer he could have given, admittedly, but the sharp intake of breath from behind him stabs him in the chest all the same, and is enough to push him to persist, blindly, stubbornly.

“ _You’re_ still here, aren’t you?”

Ambiguous, dammit! Far too ambiguous… But he’s been caught wrong-footed, and he can’t seem to stop the spin long enough to give a straight reply. The last two years of his life are still as fresh, as raw and bleeding in his head and heart, as they were just a few minutes ago when he was lying on that corpse-strewn plain, and it’s too much to balance, too large a gap to bridge so fast - too much pain, and too much hope, to keep contained within himself, where See— where _nobody_ will see them, not yet, not now!

So yes, ambiguous words: they are the best he can manage at the time, and he will have to pray to nobody that they do a good enough job to buy him the time and space he so badly needs right now.

Not a sound can be heard behind him. Only pure silence, almost aggressive on his senses. He’s not even sure Seethlaw is still breathing.

He readjusts his grip on Sherin, and on himself. “Just let me take her home first,” he says, voice on the edge of shaking. _And then I’ll be back, and we’ll find a way to make this work, somehow! Just wait - a few days, a few weeks, just wait, please!_

Soft footsteps behind him now, and from the corner of his eye, a dark shadow moving by his shoulder.

He pushes himself into staggering forward. He _can’t_ \- not yet, not yet! He’s not ready! _Pull yourself together, Gil!_ Panicking won’t help anyone, so he does the only thing he knows how to do: he moves, he keeps the ball rolling.

He keeps moving, even as his mind is still desperately struggling to find a way to reconcile the two lines of memories crashing endlessly into each other inside his head. On the one hand, a hopeless, infinitely bitter discussion with some unknown entity on a dead battlefield in a dying world, and on the other, the argument with Seethlaw, so impossibly, heart-breakingly _fresh_ suddenly, followed by Sherin’s difficult rescue, the anger and horror and disgust.

Two entirely different sets of events, both claiming to be the truth, twisting around each other in his skull, tearing his mind apart with their irreconcilable expectations, each demanding their own emotional reaction from him.

And beneath and above and behind it all…

There, right there, _walking right next to him._

 _Alive,_ when he’s been dead for so long.

 _Alive,_ when Ringil killed him himself - and unknowingly, irreparably ripped his own heart apart in the process.

 _Alive,_ and immortal - _”so far”_ \- and utterly unaware that if Ringil allows the flow of events to run the same way as it did the first time around, he will be dead within two days.

… Seethlaw.

Seethlaw. _Alive._

So fucking alive that it almost takes the breath out of Ringil to just accept that fact.

Alive, and standing so close Ringil can pick up his faint spicy scent, even in the dead air of the marsh.

Alive, as cold and beautiful as ever - and keeping thankfully silent, because Ringil doesn’t think he could handle hearing that voice again right now.

It’s all Ringil can do to keep walking, keep carrying Sherin away from this place - keep his old, weak, all-too-human body and mind from crumbling under the stress of too much knowledge and not enough power to handle it all.

_Keep walking. Just keep walking._

Even when his eyes fall on one of the exemplars, Ringil forces himself to let the emotions just wash over the surface of his mind, like fog rolling over angry sea waves.

Once again, he can feel two entirely different sets of feelings tugging at the strings of his soul. There are the original ones: the same old anger-horror-disgust, fuelling a vital need to recoil from the reality of what he’s seeing. And in counterpoint, born of two years of steady descent into dark magic, of endless walks through the Grey Places, of hundreds and thousands of cold-blooded killings, there’s also a calm complacency, an icy recognition that this is but one of the myriads of ways the various human races have tortured themselves and each other over the millennia.

The Aldrain cut their enemies’ heads and stick them onto tree-stumps, to cry and wail for all eternity.

The Kiriath build machines that kill dozens of thousands at a time, and poison lands for who knows how many centuries.

And men…

Well, Ringil is carrying in his own arms, right now, an all-too-perfect example of what men do to each other, isn’t he? Just as he is carrying in his head far too many screaming, unforgivable memories of things he’s seen, and heard, and _done_.

So he briefly screws his eyes shut and shakes his head and ignores the exemplars all around them. This isn’t the right time to explore that particular avenue. For now, he must bring the woman in his arms back home safely, and then come back here and find a way to reach out to the dwenda walking by his side - convince him to abandon his murderous plans somehow.

_Give him something else to live for… Make him smile…_

Ringil swallows. It had sounded so much easier to achieve back there on the battlefield. Now and here, in the middle of the dead marsh, with Ashgrin and Pelmarag wordlessly falling in behind them as they reach the Aldrain bridge, and Seethlaw now stiffly and silently leading the way… It sounds like he might as well have promised to turn the band back into the moon.

**

The slow walk out of the dead marsh gives Ringil some desperately needed time to assess his situation.

He’s back in his old body; there’s no doubt about that. There’s the fat on his belly, the general weakness in his muscles and clumsiness in his moves - and of course, the lack of itching and pulling in his jaw. Strange, really, how he had become so accustomed to it, had even, in some perverse way, come to depend on it when he needed an anchor to rely on. The pain of the physical scar was always there to distract him or focus on - and with it, just as grounding though he would never have admitted it, was also its emotional shadow, that yawning grief in his heart and soul… It’s only now that they are gone that he can see how much he relied on them to keep him going after all.

He could almost laugh - but he might end up weeping instead, so he firmly squashes it all into some dark corner of his mind, to be examined at some later point, maybe, and he goes back to appraising his circumstances.

He’s lost the _ikinri ‘ska_ , which makes sense: not only has he not yet learnt them in this time, but the dwenda would immediately notice them, stitched into his very being as they’d become. It’s vexing, though, how ridiculously vulnerable he feels without them. He faced the entire Aldrain army, on that last battlefield, with only the Ravensfriend in his hands and the Cold Commands at his back; yet now, in an infinitely less dangerous situation, he can’t help but wish he could rely on the dark, clawing presence of the _ikinri ‘ska_ at the back of his mind for support.

Even the fact that this time around, he remembers about the confusion spell Seethlaw put on him, and he can, if he focuses enough, sense the presence of the Ravensfriend on his back and of the dragon tooth dagger on his belt, is not enough to let him find a proper centre around which to balance his confusion and conflicting feelings. He’s lost in a storm of his own, and it’s all he can do to concentrate on helping and protecting Sherin - and on keeping an eye on Seethlaw.

He can’t tell whether the dwenda is being quite as remote and detached as he was last time, but he’s definitely unusually silent and uncommunicative. Once again, he’s avoiding Ringil, and not participating in the whispered shreds of conversation floating up now and then between the other dwenda. The argument with Ringil seems to have shaken him harshly enough that even Ringil’s clumsy attempt at a last-minute reassurance couldn’t dispel the gloom surrounding him. Ringil figures he will have to work on that… as soon as he can find his own footing again.

For now, it’s just walk, and help Sherin, and hold her when one of the dwenda looks her way and she recoils and shrinks against Ringil.

Which… gives him an idea. Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone?

At their next rest stop, he takes a few deep breaths, steels himself, and steps towards where Seethlaw is standing, staring at nothing - and it strikes Ringil suddenly that he’s seen him do that far too often, and yet he’s never wondered just what was going on in his head at those times... But it’s too late to make up for the lost opportunities, and too early to start asking that kind of probing questions after what just happened. It will have to wait for a better time, as almost everything else.

“Seethlaw?” He manages to keep his voice even, even if that means that it comes out colder and sharper than he would have liked.

Seethlaw turns to him; Ringil can’t quite read the short flurry of emotions which passes over the bone-white features before the dwenda collects himself. “Yes?” The musical voice is a perfect match in tone for Ringil’s.

Ringil presses closer in, not quite invading Seethlaw’s space yet, just near enough that he can whisper and not be heard by the other four dwenda—

He realises he’d expected Seethlaw to step back when the dwenda _doesn’t_ do that, and Ringil suddenly finds himself with a noseful of that spicy smell which makes his chest ache and his groin smoulder.

It doesn’t help at all when his ears pick up on a slightly too fast, slightly too ragged breathing that is not his own.

He fixes his gaze very determinedly over Seethlaw’s shoulder, staring blindly at the marsh beyond, waiting for his mind and body to regain some semblance of grip, no matter how tenuous, on themselves. The knowledge, the almost absolute certainty that Seethlaw must be doing something similar, is almost too much to bear, as they stand here, so close and yet so painfully far apart - bodies calling out to each other, hands itching to reach out, to grasp, to hold, lips drying fast in parching hunger for their counterparts…

And then, finally, something slides back into place deep inside Ringil’s mind, and he can move again. He can swallow, once, twice. His voice is the whisper he wants it to be when he finally talks, though so coarse, so uneven, it’s a miracle his words are intelligible at all.

“Any particular reason why these four are coming with us?”

Seethlaw turns his head even further away, sending silky threads of his long black hair flying up, flowing along Ringil’s cheek - and it’s all Ringil can do to stop himself from burying his face into it.

“They don’t trust you.” Indistinct, reluctant admission, pushed through clenched jaws.

Ringil blinks, nearly snorts. “What!?”

He automatically takes a small step back, just enough that Seethlaw can safely turn towards him again and shoot him a sour glare.

Ringil ignores the way his heart beats so much faster suddenly, in favour of pointing out what should be obvious. “What do they think I’m going to do, exactly? Jump you and tear your throat out with my teeth??”

This almost - almost - earns him a smile, if the way Seethlaw’s lips twitch is any indication. But then the beautiful face falls back into the scowl, and Seethlaw shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.” Ringil is quite sure there’s bitterness in his voice now, and that only encourages him to keep going.

“Look, Sherin is having a really hard time here. One of you is bad enough, but five, really? That’s complete overkill, don’t you think?”

He sees Seethlaw hesitate. Sees him glance at Sherin, and then at the other four dwenda. Sees the frustration flicker across the pale face.

Knows something is wrong when Seethlaw shakes his head and looks him straight in the eyes, before concluding in an apologetic voice, “I’m sorry, Gil, this is out of my hands.”

Ringil nods, automatically. He believes him, of course he does; the Aldrain don’t lie. But then…

Ah.

Of course.

He had noticed it the first time around, and this time again: Seethlaw never asked any of their four companions to join them. He didn’t - and Ringil now understands that _someone else_ did, and he’s quite sure he knows exactly who.

Not that he can blame her. He does know, after all, just how infinitely right she is to be wary of Ringil’s influence on Seethlaw. He knows how badly it could end - _did_ end.

He knows the pain he could - did - will, in another life - cause both siblings.

 _”What have you done?”_ , in the last hours of the night, on the day after tomorrow.

 _“You took my brother from me!"_ , deep within the bowels of some old, disused temple in Yhelteth, a year or so from now.

Risgillen is right to be worried, even if all the protection in the world could not have saved her brother, not when he didn’t want to save himself - but that too was Ringil’s fault, and that particular damage is already done.

_It was already all over before you even met me, Risgillen._

And here it is again, that exact same complaint he expressed on the battlefield, that same despair and hopeless rebellion against the march of a fate that was determined for them all before they could even glimpse at it, let alone make true choices about it.

_But not this time._

Not this time.

This time, Ringil will work _with_ Seethlaw, and Risgillen, and whoever else it takes - and this time, they will make their bitch out of that fucking fate none of them asked for. Together, somehow. He swears it on the bleeding shards of his heart, broken ever anew by the memories of far too many beloved faces dying at his hands, and entire choirs of anguished voices rising and crying in grief and calls for vengeance against him…

He did the very best he could and knew how on his own, and it still wasn’t enough? Well, this time he will gather as many allies as needed, until they can finally crush that fate, and wring a _proper_ future for all of them out of its corpse.

Or he’ll die trying, at least. 

In fact… For the first time, Ringil has enough mental space and self-possession to see the situation from the Aldrain’s point of view, and…

It really doesn’t look good, does it?

The first time around, Ringil didn’t have the means of grasping just how unusual Seethlaw’s actions around him were. He had no frame of reference against which to judge Seethlaw, no interactions with other Aldrain for the purpose of comparison. And of course, most of the time he shared with Seethlaw was spent in the Grey Places, where it was hard enough for a completely inexperienced human like Ringil had been at the time to keep any kind of handle on his own thoughts, let alone try to figure out the alien ways of a dwenda’s mind.

When Risgillen told him her clan’s name, it couldn’t ring in Ringil’s mind the alarm bell it did now. When she told him about Seethlaw’s tendency to lose himself in his chosen lovers, Ringil had no idea what - who - she was referring to. Seethlaw himself let slip a few allusions to Cormorion, but they seemed casual enough. How was Ringil supposed to envision the significance of Seethlaw _seeing another hero in him?_ Even when Seethlaw said it, in that low, intense voice, “I see what the akiya saw, Gil,” Ringil lacked even the shadow of an insight to understand the importance of that statement, or its implications.

In short, he’d had no fucking clue. Not the beginning of one. He was lost in the middle of the sea - and he couldn’t even _see_ the fucking sea!

And so he fell back on what he knew, and dismissed what he and Seethlaw had - _”What have you done? Gil, we - we had—”_ \- as nothing more than a sexually charged, intense but ultimately doomed right from the start, affair between two men who had chosen to fuck each other instead of killing each other as they’d originally planned.

That was, after all, what Seethlaw implied when Ringil asked him why he was letting him take Sherin home, wasn’t it? That it was nothing more than a token of affection, a repayment of sorts for the various kinds of fun Ringil was providing the dwenda with. That it didn’t mean anything beyond that.

It didn’t help that Seethlaw wasn’t exactly being subtle in his manipulation of Ringil’s mind. He had no shame in admitting to playing tricks on him to better control him. That wasn’t the behaviour of someone who cared to be trusted, was it? It wasn’t the behaviour of someone who wanted any kind of real relationship, whatever that might mean in this case.

But now, with what feels like two millennia of accumulated experience to pull on and pick from to clarify his thoughts and classify his memories… Ringil sees.

He sees everything he failed to consider back then.

Such as how deeply, how thoroughly Seethlaw screwed his own plans up to grant Ringil that “token of affection”.

Leaving his business in Trelayne to bring Ringil to Ennishmin. Letting go of one of his blood sacrifices, in exchange for nothing but what Ringil was already only too willing to give him anyway.

Compromising his delicate, unstable bonds with his sister and allies, not even two months after so many of them had turned on him, openly flouted his leadership, risked ruining everything he had worked so hard over three years to accomplish. The survivors had only come back to him because they had no better alternative; he was necessarily aware of that, of how fragile his hold over them really was.

And yet…

Ringil had already noticed it back then, that constant, almost aggressive ambivalence Seethlaw carried with him around the other dwenda. He was adamant that Ringil was not part of their strategy, that he was not to be included in their discussions about their plans - and yet, at the same time, he demanded that they all speak Naomic around Ringil, and he outright chastised them, reasserted his authority over them, right there in front of Ringil, in a tongue he could understand, just because of a word out of line, a mindless impatient remark.

This was the behaviour of someone looking - consciously or not - for troubles, and while Ringil had vaguely realised that part, he hadn’t bothered to wonder _why_ Seethlaw would act that way.

But now he does.

And now he sees. He knows. He understands.

Maybe not everything - no, scratch that, _definitely_ not everything, probably not even most of it. But certainly a lot more than the first time around, and it makes him twitch with nervousness.

_What kind of mess did you get the two of us into, Seethlaw?_

No wonder Risgillen and some of the others consider Ringil a threat now. He’s literally making Seethlaw lose his mind, badly enough that even the other Aldrain, none of them models of sanity to begin with, can plainly see it.

Seethlaw just halfway admitted to it, a few minutes ago: it’s not just Ringil they don’t trust. It’s Seethlaw as well. His earlier little speech, where he asked for their trust and loyalty, is now coming back to bite him in the arse, hard. They are loyal, oh yes - to the leader of the repossession plan. But if that leader seems to be straying from that plan, then that same loyalty demands that they pull him back into his rightful place - and possibly, if necessary, that they eliminate any threat to his stability.

Ringil frowns. He’s not worried yet; he doesn’t think it will come to that, not as long as he doesn’t give the other four a reason to turn on him. The first time around, they tried absolutely everything they could before resorting to violence when Ringil himself gave them no other choice by publicly asking for Egar’s help. There’s no reason to think it will be any different this time.

Still, though, he can’t help it when a cold shiver runs down his spine as he faces the fact that even though he hasn’t gotten her brother killed yet - and has no intention to do so, quite the contrary - Risgillen already has her watchful eye on him. And he knows _damn well_ how dedicated to that cause she is, and how far she can go.

Convincing Seethlaw to change his approach to the whole repossession idea will be hard enough. Doing so without triggering Risgillen’s protective instincts, without pushing her into a position where she feels she has no choice anymore but to make good on her promise - _”Do not doubt; if you bring hurt or harm upon my brother, I will fuck you up”_ …

Well, that should be an _interesting_ challenge, for sure.

**


	3. Seethlaw

Put one foot in front of the other.

Keep your eyes on the path. It’s easy now; no need to focus anymore. Just follow the trail; look for the right ways around obstacles. Trust that the others will deal with it if one of the humans runs into any kind of problem. No need to look back; just keep going.

You know these marshes like the back of your hand, don’t even have to think about any of it. How many times over the centuries have you walked these parts? How many trails have you seen being created, one traveller at a time, only to disappear as another one took its place, or the river flooded and people forgot, or a mudslide blocked it, or…

So many paths, or none at all for miles, but always the same marsh.

The same _dead_ marsh at its murdered heart, growing alive again the further you leave that Black Scourge abomination behind. Behind, but never gone, never forgotten. How could anyone forget, when it is still here, still killing everything around--

Pelmarag calls after you.

The woman can’t keep up. She needs another one of those accursed pauses.

Fuck.

You hate those moments of rest, because when your legs stop moving, your mind takes their place and you can’t stop it. You can’t stop staring at the trees ahead, and wishing. It’s like an itch under your skin, made all the worse because you can’t reach inside yourself to scratch it. You can just stand here and ignore the urge, even if it only makes it worse.

The urge to start running, and never stop.

Running.

Running away from your cousin and so-called friends, who dare to try to keep you prisoner under your own sister’s orders.

Running away from that mess you left behind, over there in the ruins of Enheed-idrishinir, and in Trelayne. Because it _is_ a mess now. It shouldn’t be, but it is, and how did this happen!?

Everything was so clear! Your path so obvious, right there under your eyes, just waiting for you to walk down it. After so long, you were _finally_ going to make everything right and good again, fulfil your duty to your people, live up to the destiny you were born to!

Make up for-- for-- for the failures, and the disasters. For the unfathomable pain and horror of death striking down immortals by the dozens of thousands, slaughtering an entire people at the core of their homeland.

Make up for the centuries and centuries _and centuries_ that followed, with nothing but bottomless misery, and homeless wandering, and that terrifying _helplessness_ in the face of an eternity of your people being condemned to never walk under the true sky again, never breathe the true air, because some demons summoned from nobody-knows-where stole all of that from under their feet, and you were unable to stop it.

But now, miraculously, the demons are gone. You don’t exactly know why or where, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they are _gone_ , and you are going to make everything _right_ again, rise up to your unearned, undeserved title of Lord of Clan Illwrack, bring your people back to the place that should always have remained theirs if only you—

If only you…

No.

You can’t think about that. You can’t go down that path. It never ends well.

So you put it away, in that deep, dark place where you keep these thoughts locked, hidden, _harmless_ as long as you don’t let them out.

You think about the Repossession instead, and the Rebuilding. It’s almost here, so close now that you can almost _touch_ it, almost _taste it_. Almost! Just a few more weeks, a few more—

Ah.

But no.

Not anymore.

Not anymore, and it doesn’t make any _sense!_

Finding a Hero, in these circumstances, it seemed like the strongest proof you could ever have dreamt of that you were on the right path indeed! Heroes… Heroes don’t flourish anymore, in this world tainted by the Black Folk. And you were certainly not ever going to find one in the human company you’ve been keeping in Trelayne! So you were safe, or so you thought.

And then _he_ showed up, and everything went so right and so wrong at the same time.

A Hero, after all this time… You still remember the first time you laid eyes on him - the way his essence, as twisted and chipped at the edges as it was, still stole your breath away with its dark brilliance, its unbreakable purity at the heart of it…

When he came to you, came with you, followed you… For the first time in all those eternities, you felt _whole_ again. He appeared, and he filled a gaping hole in your soul that you had long forgotten was there.

And then he took it all away.

Because he’s a Hero, yes, but he’s not _your_ Hero.

He made that clear, in that blunt, brutal way of his you love so much.

He’s the _humans’_ Hero, even though they don’t see that, and even though they don’t treat him as he deserves. He doesn’t care about that; Heroes never do. He just does what he has to do. He fought you, endured the Grey Places, walked into that building - to rescue the human woman he’d been set to save.

All along, he was _her_ Hero, not yours. Never yours. The humans’ Hero, not the Aldrain’s.

It doesn’t matter that when he looks at you with that hard glint in his eyes, you feel your mind slipping away from you. It doesn’t matter that when he lets out angry words that bite as sharply as any swamp-dog, you have to fight to remember what you want, you have to struggle not to forget what you were thinking, not to give in to the urge to just agree with whatever he says, give him whatever he wishes for.

It doesn’t matter that you would give him the world - _all_ the worlds - if he just asked.

It doesn’t matter, because he won’t ever ask. It doesn’t matter because even if you offered all of this to him, he wouldn’t _want_ it.

Not from _you,_ he’s made that clear. Not from you, ever.

When you told him about the Repossession, about the Rebuilding, and he threw it all back into your face--

No, you coward, don’t you _dare_ shove _that_ away! Yes it hurts, but that’s one part you’re not allowed to dismiss!

You’re not allowed to make yourself forget how fucking _lucky_ you are that it happened so early, and that he didn’t do any worse than look at you with disgust burning in his eyes, and talk to you with hatred distorting his voice.

You’re fucking lucky, and you’d better not forget it. You brought a _humans’_ Hero right into Hannais M’hen! It’s a fucking _miracle_ that there’s still anything left standing behind!

What were you _thinking!?_ How could you be so _blind!?_ How could you fail - _again_ \- so profoundly, so spectacularly, o great Lord Seethlaw of Clan Illwrack?

_How could you fail your people like that AGAIN!?_

… And now…

Now…

Now you can only take him away from here as fast as you can, and hope, fucking _hope_ beyond hope that when he comes back —

Because he _will_ come back, he will come back for you; he’s said so. He will come back - with his sword, and his pride that no beauty or sorcery can stop him, and his promise to kill you.

And you can only hope that when he does, he won’t raze everything to the ground _somehow_ , no matter how well-defended the place might be.

You can only hope that _this time,_ you will be allowed to atone for your failure on your own, that your people will be left out of it, that they won’t have to pay _once again_ for your stupidity and shortcomings - not again, _not again,_ please not again…

Admit it, though… You almost long for that day, don’t you? It’s terrifying because you don’t know _what_ you will do on that day, because when you think of him raising that abomination of a sword against you again—

No. No, _these_ thoughts you better shove into the black place, because there’s a sticky, poisonous sweetness coated all over them - something similar, so similar, _too_ similar to what filled you just an hour or two ago, and turned your blood to fire and your thoughts to sluggish, slippery mud, when he came to you, and talked to you, and stood right there, so close you could have heard his heartbeat if yours hadn’t been thundering, in great echoing rushes, throughout your skull…

And it doesn’t even matter that you know, you _know,_ that he felt the same.

It doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t matter to _him_ , and he outright told you that, on that very first morning, and you never truly forgot, no matter how much you tried to lie to yourself that it had changed, or it _would_ change, or—

Or nothing.

_”A cheap fuck doesn’t need to have a name. But I like to know what to call the men I’m going to kill.”_

A cheap fuck… Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t being entirely truthful about that, but the fact remains that he told you, even if you didn’t want to hear: ultimately, this was all just a means to an end to him. You’re no stranger to this tactic; you’ve used it yourself often enough.

And yes, he still wants you. They all do. But it has nothing to do with you, just with the fact that you’re Aldrain. He would spread his legs just as readily for any of the others; all humans would. You _know_ that; it’s just the way it goes.

It never meant anything, and--

— And Pelmarag, giving you the signal that everyone is ready to go again, and isn’t _that_ a fucking relief! For another hour or two, you can take all your thoughts, the bitter ones, the treacherous ones, the dangerous ones, take them all, and stuff them out there, lock them all up, and just start walking again.

Just walk.

Just keep walking.

Keep walking to your doom, one way or another, but _keep fucking walking!_

***


	4. Ringil

By the time they reach the place with the ferry, Ringil has made two decisions.

First, Sherin needs better clothes. It’s kind of a miracle that she didn’t die of exposure the first time around, when all she’s wearing is a simple shift. If she’s going to have to walk a couple more days, then she needs proper boots, and something warm to wrap herself into.

And second, of course… No matter what, he must make sure the Dragonbane doesn’t recognise him. Upon reflection, he’s come to the conclusion that he and Sherin must have been under some kind of glamour along with the five dwenda, that first time around, because nobody commented on a young woman’s presence, and Egar only identified him when they talked and looked at each other. Still, though, the risk is huge, and Ringil can’t outright ask Seethlaw or anyone else to take any additional preemptive measures, so he will have to keep his own eyes peeled and his voice down, and hope for the best.

It doesn’t help that he knows Dakovash is out there, actually doing his best to ensure that Egar and Ringil meet, and then join forces with Archeth downriver.

_Sorry, old pal, not gonna happen this time around._

First Risgillen, now Dakovash: he’s really collecting all the wrong enemies, isn’t he? And he doesn’t even have the _ikinri ‘ska_ to back him up this time.

 _Ringil Eskiath, you really have a gift for getting yourself into the most improbable messes, you know that? You could be happily dead by now, but noooo, of course not! You just_ had _to go and buy yourself another ride on the Round-And-Round-About Machine, didn’t you?_

He sighs, then steals a glance at Seethlaw’s watchful face as the dwenda peers down at the small settlement, ensuring that everything is as it should be before leading them down the way.

A tiny diamond-hard shard of bright warmth coalesces deep in Ringil’s chest when Seethlaw’s gaze flicks up, spots him staring back, and the white lips briefly, so briefly, bend into an almost-smile.

_Totally worth it._

Even the way Seethlaw then catches himself, frowns, and turns away, isn’t enough to completely smother that warm pinprick, no matter that it also feels like a kick to the guts.

“There’s a ferry across,” Seethlaw explains, just like last time, while pointing to the little knots of buildings huddled against the riverbank. Ringil doesn’t remember his voice sounding so flat, though… “And from there, the road bends north-west. We’ve come this far south to avoid the worst of the swamp, but the ground from now on is a lot easier. It’s a couple of days walk to Pranderghal, that’s a fair-sized village. We’ll get horses there.”

Ringil nods, as he must. “And tonight?” he asks, his stomach tightening as he remembers what will come next.

“We spend here. The ferry won’t run until morning.”

Now.

Now, any time…

… But it doesn’t come.

Seethlaw doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t suggest bringing the aspect storm to speed things up. He just leads the way out of the trees, and Ringil is so shocked, Sherin has to look back and pull on his hand to make him move.

_Well, well… Looks like you’ve managed to effect a real first change after all, Gil._

It should feel like a victory. He finally has a tangible proof that he’s changing the course of events. Shouldn’t that count for something?

… It certainly shouldn’t feel so bitter and hollow, should it?

 

* * *

 

He calls out as they are reaching the inn.

“Seethlaw?”

There’s no answer. Ringil has to step forward and actually touch the dwenda on the shoulder to make him turn, or more precisely _jump_ around.

And the way he looks at Ringil… It’s funny, Ringil figures, how quickly one can get used to those seemingly blank, empty eyes, and realise that they are in fact anything but blank and empty. They are pure black, yes, with none of the features one would recognise in human eyes, but they very much have their own expressiveness.

It’s like the Kiriath, in a way - in a _reverse_ way: there are _too many_ things happening in a Kiriath’s eyes, and it’s dizzying at first, and you can’t look without feeling overwhelmed, because you don’t know what is significant and what isn’t.

And then, with time and experience, they become eyes almost like any others. You learn to dismiss some aspects of them, just like you learn from birth that eye colour in human eyes is only a feature and not an indication of emotion. And once you’ve learnt that, and you’ve become accustomed to the pure blackness of the skin, reading a Kiriath face becomes not so different at all from reading a human face. Some are easier because their owners are more expressive, and some are so impassive as to be almost impossible to decipher - just like with humans.

And so with the dwenda, too.

Their eyes may have no visible features, but they are not actually empty. Their skin may be as pure white as the Kiriath’s is pure black, but overall, the expressions remain the same, if only you pay enough attention.

And right now… Right now Seethlaw is not looking at Ringil. He’s staring right _through_ him, and Ringil doesn’t know how he knows that, but he does, and it _hurts_ and scares him, and makes him wish he could just drag Seethlaw to a secluded corner and _talk_ to him.

But he can’t, not yet, so he just gestures to Sherin and speaks up. “She needs proper clothes.” He tries to strike the right measure with his tone, for everyone’s sake: not demanding or resentful, but not begging or unsure either. He’s not trying to walk over _anyone’s_ authority here, assuming anyone is in charge to begin with, but he won’t stand for Sherin being left in that precarious state any longer either.

Seethlaw blinks and sluggishly drags his gaze to the woman by Ringil’s side. Ringil can feel the other four dwenda doing so as well, and she predictably shrinks against Ringil, who wraps an arm around her.

There’s a beat, a floating moment where the indecision, the confusion are so thick in the air between the seven of them, Ringil can almost taste it in the back of his mouth.

“He’s right...” Pelmarag says, sounding a very odd mix of hesitant and confident. “Once we hit the road proper, she’s only going to drag us down if she’s too injured or sick to keep up.”

Ringil feels the group’s attention shifting back to Seethlaw - but there’s nothing to be found there.

Seethlaw’s not even looking at anyone anymore. He’s turned his face to the river, and he’s staring and staring, as though there were any answers to be found in the rapid, turbulent flows of the stream. The sheer _vacancy_ in his eyes chills Ringil to the bone. He doesn’t understand what’s happening but he can tell that it’s not good, _not good, not good at all, Seethlaw, what the fuck is going on in your head!?_

Pelmarag’s voice is a lot more assured, even though Ringil can still hear a brittle fear or uncertainty under-laying it, when he speaks up again. “I’ll take care of it. I should find something at the trading post. Ashgrin, you guys go in and get us settled. I’ll be right back.”

Ringil hears him turning on his heels and striding quickly away into the gathering gloom. At the same time, from the corner of his eye, he can see Ashgrin reaching for the inn door. Seethlaw still hasn’t moved, hasn’t said a word. He doesn’t seem to notice as Ashgrin, and then the two other dwenda whose names Ringil still doesn’t know, file into the building. Sherin is still huddling against Ringil, and he pulls her with him as he moves—

He meant to follow the others inside the inn. Instead, he can’t help but step even closer to Seethlaw.

Before he knows what he’s doing, his free hand is rising, and wrapping itself around the side of Seethlaw’s neck.

The dwenda jumps again. His head jerks to face Ringil. His eyes are wide now, as their blank gaze locks onto Ringil’s, drilling straight into Ringil’s mind, and Ringil can read far too many things there, but there’s one emotion that screams so much louder than all the others, and it’s _so fucking wrong_ that it chases all the air out of Ringil’s lungs, and then locks his chest so he can’t breathe anymore.

He can’t breathe. He can’t talk. He can just stare as Seethlaw looks at him with _that_ emotion pouring out of him, and the rhythm of his breath decays into ragged gasps, and he starts to tremble under Ringil’s touch…

And then suddenly, he’s gone, stepped through the door, leaving behind him only the memories of his hair flowing over Ringil’s fingers - and of that overwhelming _terror_ howling its way out of him and straight into Ringil’s mind and heart and body.

… Since when does Seethlaw _fear_ him?

And _why?_ Ringil’s no harmless kitten, but Seethlaw has proved again and again that he can take him on and _win._

_Seethlaw, dammit, what the fuck is going on here!?_

 

* * *

 

 Seethlaw seems to have recovered by the time they all sit down around the table - the same table as last time, _not good, that, Gil, not good_ \- even if the way he’s avoiding Ringil’s gaze is a sure indication that all is still not well.

Ringil lets it go. He has no idea what he’s playing with here. He can’t decipher the cards in his hand. Better to wait and observe for now, rather than make a rash move he might regret. Once again, it’s that old dance Grace-of-Heaven taught him: know when to let your target swim away and gather themselves, hopefully to better reel them in later.

They’ve barely been served - the same ale with its thick foam, and the same hog ribs as last time - that Pelmarag is already back with a bundle of fur rolled tight under his arm. He drops it under the table, and takes his seat, while muttering something in the Aldrain tongue which makes one of the two still-nameless dwenda chuckle.

Ringil has gone through many, _many_ strange moments and occurrences over the last couple of years, including, technically, dying once or twice. Yet none of it prepared him for the surreal experience of sitting here, repeating moves he once already made, while thinking entirely different thoughts, and feeling entirely different emotions.

Two years ago, he remembers, he was struggling to deal with the fading memories of his first time in the Grey Places, and Seethlaw was keeping a close eye on him, trying to help him transition as smoothly as possible.

This time… Ringil glances up. Seethlaw is mechanically picking at the coarse meat on his plate. He’s - _once again_ \- staring into thin air, looking at nothing in particular. How often _does_ he do that? How did Ringil miss it the first time around!?

_It was your first time in the Grey Places, Gil. Go easy on yourself._

That’s true enough. Still though, Ringil remembers noticing Seethlaw’s easy distraction; he just never had any proper opportunity to follow through on that observation, to wonder what it could mean, how it could be exploited.

Now he does, and he’s determined to take full advantage of it. It’s not just about Seethlaw, either: each of the other four dwenda at the table is likely to feel antsy at the idea of being stuck in the real world for days or even weeks on end. That’s one thing Seethlaw’s earlier angry speech made plenty clear: none of them _likes_ living in the real world.

Which, now that Ringil thinks of it, makes it rather odd that they should be so bent on conquering the world again, and carving a new home for themselves here. Hmm… Something doesn’t quite fit there. He makes a note of it, along with a reminder to dig into it deeper when an opportunity presents itself, and goes back to observing his table companions.

Next to him, Sherin is bent over her plate, devouring her meat like she’s not sure it won’t be taken away from her before she’s done picking every single bone perfectly clean. He can’t blame her; he has no idea what or how often the dwenda have been feeding their prisoners, but the slavers before them, at the very least, are not exactly famous for being generous caregivers.

Across from Ringil, Seethlaw is now staring into his mug as though there were some secret message to be deciphered in the swirls of dark beer. Just like on the way from Ennishmin, he’s paying no attention to anyone else: not to Ringil, and not to the other Aldrain, who are exchanging short whispers among themselves.

Pelmarag makes up for Seethlaw’s disinterest, though. Ringil jolts in alarm when the dwenda reaches out for Sherin’s plate. He’s already moving to stop him, when he notices that Pelmarag’s other hand is sticking a knife into the dish of hog ribs. He can only watch in a confused mix of disbelief and mortification as Pelmarag loads Sherin’s empty plate again, and deposits it in front of her without a word - or more precisely, without a word _to her,_ because he’s still engaged in a whispered discussion with Ashgrin over his shoulder.

Ringil is stunned. Not only should keeping an eye on Sherin’s plate have been _his own_ job, but the extremely casual way in which Pelmarag did it is… disturbing in its incoherence.

Ringil remembers only too well that under the easy-going appearance, Pelmarag hides an impatient and merciless core. Not even two months ago, he agreed to participate in a violent attempt to re-conquer Ennishmin - and he has so far exhibited no regrets whatsoever over doing so. Granted, Tarnval hadn’t anticipated that they would end up facing an entire garrison town instead of a nearly-deserted marsh, but Pelmarag didn’t exactly pull back when that happened, did he? He went in just like all the others, and killed every human being who came in his way.

_”Across town and up the hill, fucking humans everywhere, running around screaming and jabbering in the dark like the lost souls of apes, you know, cut one down and there’s another right fucking behind it.”_

That’s what he told Ringil - a human himself - without apparently noticing the complete indecency of it. Quite the contrary: he called the whole venture a “funny story”, and went out of his way to recount it to Ringil…

Nor does it stop there, Ringil realises. Pelmarag didn’t take Seethlaw into consideration either, did he? Not only was it not his place to decide what Ringil should be informed of or not, but even participating in the operation had been a direct show of defiance against Seethlaw’s leadership. It endangered Seethlaw’s plan, and threatened to unravel three years of patient undercover work. And yet Pelmarag blithely walked all over that, twice over, to the point that Seethlaw was forced to reassert their respective places. _”Gil here isn’t a part of our strategy, Pel.”_

Ringil remembers explaining to Archeth and Egar and the Throne Eternal down in Ibiksinri that _”the dwenda aren’t unified, they aren’t anything_ like _unified. There are factions, disagreements over strategy, constant individual dispute.”_ At the time, he had meant it as an argument to bolster confidence within the humans, an understanding that there was a deep flaw there that a properly organised human army could use to defeat the dwenda, stop them in their tracks before they had time to complete their plans.

Now, though…

Now, Ringil needs to _understand._

He needs to understand what kind of power Seethlaw effectively holds - and _doesn’t_ hold - over the others.

He needs to understand where the others stand on the various alternative strategies. For example, Tarnval was Ashgrin’s brother, and he died during that ill-fated operation. Where does that leave Ashgrin? What hides behind that emotionless face? Is he being so laconic out of grief? Anger? Disinterest? Did he too follow Tarnval to Khangset? Did he see him die?

And Pelmarag… How is Ringil supposed to reconcile Pelmarag’s seeming care over Sherin’s well-being, and his gregariousness around Ringil himself, with the cold-blooded murderer who freely recounted his own borderline traitorous participation in an impatient, poorly-prepared, and disastrously followed-through deployment of the ultimate Aldrain weapon?

Ringil’s head swims. So many unknowns! So much unpredictability within each and every one of the dwenda he knows, let alone the ones he doesn’t know yet. And no idea whatsoever of what kind of power structure may exist among them, if any…

_What the fuck were you thinking, Gil!? There’s walking into a fire, and there’s being dropped in the middle of an active volcano’s caldera!_

And then, suddenly, cutting right through his every thought and emotion, the voice he’s been unconsciously waiting for. Deep, raucous, and that unmistakable accent…

Egar has arrived.

Ringil forces his gaze down to his plate, focuses on breathing, on not letting his hands shake, on stopping his back and shoulders from locking into an obviously defencive position, lest Seethlaw or any of the other four dwenda notice that something is wrong with him.

He waits, and he hopes.

He waits for the hard bump into his back. He hopes Egar won’t notice him here.

He would pray that he won’t mess it all up himself, that he won’t say or do the wrong thing at the wrong time, if only he had anybody to pray to. But he doesn’t, so instead he tries to convince his galloping heart that should anything happen, Seethlaw and the others can handle it. He pulls on the memories of how Seethlaw and Ashgrin almost convinced the Dragonbane that he was mistaken, that first time around. Images of a spider-like hand, fingers spread wide apart, and then _twitching_ , and calm, soothing voices telling Egar that—

And there it is.

He’s thrown forward by the blow when the Dragonbane bumps heavily into him. Sherin next to him automatically turns around and starts reaching out in a steadying move. He glances at her, briefly shakes his head, plasters a smile onto his face.

She relaxes - and behind them, Egar takes his seat, along with the scavenger crew he’s been working for.

Ringil can almost hear Dakovash spluttering in outraged disbelief. The demon god has worked so hard to arrange this meeting, and here Ringil goes, deliberately spurning it! He has no doubt Dakovash will try again. _From now on, it’s a whole new canvas, Gil. You have an edge in this game, because you know things nobody else does, but you’re still working against the Dark Court, and the Aldrain, and the League and the Empire together…_

And it hits him again, the sheer enormity of the task he’s undertaken… What was he _thinking!?_

But then he glances up, and catches Seethlaw looking at him, before the empty gaze drops back to the barely-touched plate, and…

_Still totally worth it._

 

* * *

 

Egar didn’t notice him, nor did anybody else for that matter.

But Pelmarag has gone and done it again, and Ringil finds himself struggling once more to find his footing where that one is concerned.

He forces the nicest smile he can summon onto his lips, as behind the wooden screen in a corner of the bedroom they’ve piled into, Sherin can be heard slipping into the hot bath Pel has ordered to be prepared for her.

He bites back every question, every remark, except for the only appropriate one. “Thank you.”

Pelmarag shrugs and flashes one of his quick, easy grins. “Just figured that if she was gonna get into new clothes, she might want to get a good scrub before.”

That would be a perfectly normal assumption for a _human_ to make, but none of the dwenda Ringil has met so far have shown so much as the _ability_ to think that way, let alone a _willingness_ to do so.

What’s so fucking _different_ about Pelmarag??

… And how can Ringil exploit that difference?

Ringil lies down on the bedroll Ashgrin has assigned him - next to Sherin’s, both of them bracketed by everyone else’s, away from the door and the one window. Still no lost trust there, but that’s all right; Ringil can work with that.

It’s admittedly harder to deal with the fact that Seethlaw chose the bedroll farthest away from his, right under the window. The dwenda is still pointedly avoiding him - and pretty much everything and everybody else. Even right now, he’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, staring into his hands gathered in a cup on his lap. Ringil catches some of the glances the other dwenda throw his way every now and then, but nobody seems willing to take the initiative to shake him out of whatever funk he’s sunk into.

Well, at this stage, Ringil would much rather deal with this than risk another open confrontation. He lets it slide, and instead waits for Sherin to be done so he can take her place in the bath. It won’t be clean water, and he won’t have clean clothes to change into, but he’s not quite sure how long it’s been since he last had a chance to wash, and he knows for sure he will regret not taking that opportunity after they spend another day or so walking through the marsh and stewing inside their clothes.

 _Take what you can get now. Prepare for the future as best you can - and then deal with it when it happens._ That’s always been his general philosophy, but it feels like it has never applied to his life as blindly as it does now…

 

* * *

 

None of the dwenda were sleeping when he fell asleep. None of them are sleeping when he wakes up. Couple that with the fact that Ringil can’t remember if he’s ever actually _seen_ a dwenda sleep, and now he’s wondering if they ever do.

Huh.

He figures he could ask - later. For now, he’s on tenterhooks: Egar is sitting two tables away, facing him, as they are all having breakfast.

There’s no question now that the dwenda must have put _some kind_ of glamour on Ringil, because the Dragonbane has definitely looked his way at least a couple times, and not recognised him at all. Ringil figures it makes sense; at the very least, the Ravensfriend needs to be kept hidden from view in the midst of all those Kiriath artifacts scavengers, or they would all be on Ringil faster than a pack of starving dogs on a thrown bone.

He can’t help but idly wonder just _what_ he looks like…

Sherin devours the thick and disturbingly undefined gruel they were all served, just as quickly and thoroughly as she did her dinner the night before. Ringil knows better than to be picky, and steadily works his way to the bottom of his own bowl. He’s had a good dinner last night, then a surprisingly refreshing night, his sleep peacefully unbroken from beginning to end - no doubt he has some Aldrain mind trick or other to thank for that, and for Sherin’s lack of screaming nightmares - and now his body is only too happy to go back to its energetic self. For that, it needs food, so food it gets.

Either the dwenda don’t share his new energy, or their bodies don’t need the same kind of nourishment, but what’s for sure is that none of them makes more than a perfunctory effort at pretending to pick at their own bowls. The beers go down easily enough, but the gruel remains mainly untouched. Not that it seems to put any kind of damper on their mood: Pelmarag and the two dwenda Ringil _still_ hasn’t been introduced to are having a hushed but apparently exciting conversation. Ringil vaguely wonders whether they are also using any kind of glamour to disguise the definitely odd-sounding lilts of their native tongue… Ashgrin sometimes puts a word in, though mainly when he’s asked, from what Ringil can tell.

As for Seethlaw…

Ringil sighs into his beer. Seethlaw might as well not be here at all, for all that he seems to care about what’s going on around him. There’s, however, a slightly different underlying tone to his disinterest today. Yesterday, he seemed lost; today, he seems to be ruminating on inner thoughts. His eyebrows scrunch together sometimes, and an odd twitch makes his jaw muscle jump at seeming random.

_Give it time._

_… And keep your eyes peeled,_ Ringil reminds himself as Pel once again, just like last night, reaches for Sherin’s bowl and mug and refills them without being asked, and apparently without even really noticing what he’s doing. There’s an automatic, almost seemingly unconscious aspect to the dwenda’s behaviour which only intrigues Ringil ever more as he sees it happen.

 

* * *

 

They let the scavengers commandeer the first runs of the ferry. Ringil doesn’t see anyone take that decision; simply, nobody around the table moves when the calls ring through the room. It makes sense, Ringil muses: he’s been in that boat, he knows how small it actually is, and how wild the river can be. Even hidden under their glamour, the dwenda wouldn’t want to unnecessarily risk rubbing elbows too closely with strangers. So Ringil lets it go, and waits.

Sherin looks a whole lot better this morning. It figures: she’s out of the dead marsh, she’s had two more-than-square meals, and from what she confirms to Ringil, a night as peaceful as his own - and as much as it irks him to know their minds are being controlled, he can’t help but feel grateful on her behalf for that sleeping spell. The warm bath last evening has cleared the dirt from her face and hair. She’s wearing her new warm and sturdy clothes wrapped closely around herself, almost like an armour, and it seems to have revived some of her confidence. She keeps quiet and she barely moves as her gaze roams over the room around them, and the strangers sitting at the other tables, but at least she’s showing some curiosity now, and that’s enough of a start for Ringil.

… She still shrinks against Ringil’s side whenever one of the dwenda looks her way, though. He slinks an arm around her shoulders and squeezes gently, all while carefully ignoring their other companions. She’s not aware of it, but he knows that she’s stuck between two equally unappealing situations: nightmares by day around the dwenda, or nightmares by night after they finally release her. Either way, she’s fucked, and there’s nothing he can do about it but offer her his support when she asks for it.

A heavy rain has come by the time they finally leave the inn and make their way to the ferry. They pile in, five disguised dwenda, two humans pretending not to be their prisoners, and the two bags of food and water they bought at the tavern. The boatman is in a foul mood as he struggles through the wind-beaten sleet to manoeuvre the small skiff against the angry currents. Ringil wraps a shivering Sherin in his arms, and peers ahead, to the other bank, where he can see the blurry silhouettes of a few last straggling scavengers milling around, and—

His heart skips a beat, as his vision tunnels onto a lonely figure, standing on a rock overlooking the river.

Large-brimmed hat. Long cloak flapping in the wind.

Ringil can’t pick out any details from where he is, but he has no doubt whatsoever. The Salt Lord has come to adjust the situation once again.


	5. Ringil

Sure enough, just at that moment, the ferry-man curses loudly, and the boat shifts violently as it catches into the edge of one of the treacherous swirls peppering the centre of the river. Sherin lets out a tight shrill when Ringil pushes them both down to the bottom of the little boat. Around him, from the corner of his eyes, he can see the dwenda assuming similar bracing positions - and at least a couple of hands extending, fingers shifting in a blur through the rain.

The skiff stops its mad dance, shivers indecisively where it stands, apparently trapped by the eddies running on either side of it.

“Oi!” The ferry-man’s deep voice carries loud and clear over the clatter of rain hitting river water. “Little help!”

Yells echo back from the opposite bank. Some of the scavengers have noticed the ferry’s predicament. There’s a flurry of movement, and then a large, dark mass flies through the air and lands in a massive splash ten yards upriver from the boat.

“Grab it!” the boatman shouts, his own arms still braced on the oars.

One of the dwenda on that side of the skiff bends high over the side and reaches into the water. From where he’s crouching over Sherin, and through the sheets of rain, Ringil can’t even tell who it is. He can only wait - again, always, and this is starting to feel like an itch he can’t scratch - as a few moments pass before something is heard and felt thumping against the wood of the boat, and the fishing dwenda hauls himself back with a grunt, holding a thick rope in his hands.

Ringil squeezes Sherin’s trembling shoulders. “It’s gonna be okay,” he explains into her ear. “They are going to pull us over to the bank.” Another squeeze. “I’ll go help, all right?” She doesn’t answer, but neither does she cling to him to hold him back when he lets go of her.

He reaches for the rope, helps drag the anchor - a large piece of dead wood - on board, and then holds on tight, one foot braced against one of the seats, as the rope goes taut, and rhythmic grunts start reaching them from where the scavengers have gathered into a tight knot on the jetty.

Ringil’s gaze skips up to the rock overlooking the water, and then up and down the river bank, but Dakovash is nowhere to be seen anymore. Ringil’s stomach twists in sick apprehension as he tries to prepare himself to derail whatever plan the Salt Lord has set into motion this time.

He’s no more than mildly surprised when it turns out, after the skiff has finally been brought to the safety of the jetty, that Egar is the first one in line offering his hand to help the rescued passengers disembark onto solid ground.

Their eyes meet for just one moment before Ringil has time to look away, and for one terrifying minute, despite the rain, despite the glamour which still obviously holds tight to the dwenda at least, despite _everything,_ Ringil is sure, deathly sure, that the Dragonbane has recognised him, and will call him out by name, and all hell will break loose again…

His heartbeat is hammering in his skull as he stoops down, pulls Sherin to her feet a bit more brusquely than he had meant to, and transfers her into Egar’s waiting hold.

His legs nearly turn to jelly, and his breath leaves him in a rush, when Egar carefully lifts the woman out of the boat, and walks away with her - showing no sign whatsoever that he’s ever known the man who handed her to him.

By the time the Dragonbane comes back, the boat has long been emptied of its passengers and cargo. A small argument is developing between the ferry-man, some of the scavengers who demand retribution for their help, and the dwenda. Ashgrin puts a silent end to it by slapping a generously filled pouch into the boatman’s hand; the sudden lull in the discussion is almost eerie, as ferry-owner and scavengers stare hungrily first at the money, and then at each other.

Ringil follows Ashgrin down the jetty. He can’t help but tense up as he passes barely a foot away in front of the Dragonbane - but it’s like Egar doesn’t see him, like Ringil isn’t even visible to him… Ringil suspects another trick of the dwenda; it’s certainly something he would have easily accomplished himself with the _ikinri ‘ska_ just a few weeks or months ago, in his previous life.

This makes him wonder. He doesn’t clearly remember the glyphs the dwenda have used in front of him so far, but he’s quite sure they don’t directly correspond to any of the ones he knows. The mechanism through which the dwenda channel this part of their magic appears similar enough to the _ikinri ‘ska_ Hjel and the Book-Keepers have taught Ringil, and yet sufficiently different to be its own thing.

He remembers something Seethlaw told him just yesterday in this life. It didn’t make sense when he heard it the first time around, but now…

_”It’s less a question of gods than of mechanisms, of the way things are bound up and acted upon. Of ritual, If you like. You may as well ask why humans bury their dead, when eating them would make more sense. There_ are _powers, entities with sway in these matters, though the Aldrain do not consider themselves bound by them in any meaningful way. But there is also an etiquette, an observance of hallowed rules, and for this, blood has always been the channel.”_

At the time, Ringil knew precious little about how the Dark Court worked, and nothing at all about the Source, the Codes, and the Book-Keepers. Now he does, and it all feels like a puzzle, trying to connect each power to its proper place in Seethlaw’s explanation.

The Dark Court, the demon gods: those, Ringil knows he can dismiss. The gods are the dwenda’s enemies; the dwenda do not and would not ask for their help in any matter.

Or, well, _most_ of the dwenda wouldn’t, anyway, in _most_ circumstances. Risgillen… Ringil shakes his head. Risgillen had been mad with grief, desperate for a chance to exert her vengeance on Ringil, when she turned to the Dark Court for help to capture him. And in the end, in true demon god fashion, the Dark Court had effectively delivered _her_ into _his_ hands, allowing her to go through the motions of her revenge plan only to better equip him with the tools he could use to defeat her.

_Figures. It’s all nothing more than a game for those double-crossing arseholes, isn’t it? Say what you want about the Aldrain, but at least_ they _take those matters seriously!_

So anyway, no Dark Court for the dwenda to worship or turn to, which means… The “powers”, the “entities with sway in these matters”…

Could those be the Book-Keepers? That would make sense, Ringil supposes. The Aldrain may have forgotten their origins, but they are not unaware of the presence of the Book-Keepers in this world, and of their abilities. On that hill, before the last battle, Lathkeen mentioned Ringil’s skills with the _ikinri ‘ska_ , and how Clan Talonreach could keep them in check. As for Cormorion… During his brief struggle against the last of the Dark Kings, Ringil was made only too strongly aware of what true mastery of the _ikinri ‘ska_ could look like, and how far from it he himself had still been.

So yes, the Aldrain know about the Book-Keepers, their powers, and the powers they can in turn impart to humans. They would not, however, worship them. Their ancestors, back when they were still humans, had _captured_ one of those creatures, and now the Source is enslaved to them, and through it, the Book-Keepers as well in a way. Though… Ringil can’t help wondering: if the Aldrain have forgotten their own origins, have they also lost all knowledge of the connection existing between their own bound Source and the free, alien entities that are the Book-Keepers? Do they use the Book-Keepers to train their Dark Kings, but with no understanding of how closely connected the Book-Keepers are to their own Source?

And if, on the other hand, they do realise the truth of the connection, then how can they not guess at the truth about their own nature…?

Then again, even when it was revealed to them directly by the Source, they still rejected it. _None so blind as those who refuse to see_ \- and even the Aldrain, in all their visceral dislike of deceit and treachery, can lie to themselves like the best and worst of humanity, if pushed to it by a strong enough sense of desperation…

And of course, even beyond all those considerations, there’s the matter of how much exactly the Aldrain know about their ultimate weapon, about the Source and the Codes binding them, about the Talons of the Sun.

It’s likely that they don’t remember trapping the Source, since this would require remembering they were once human. So what _do_ they know about the Source? Do they understand the nature of the power they hold captive? Do they realise why and how it affects the fabric of the world itself at their command? It has apparently taught them its own version of the _ikinri ‘ska_ , but what do they know about the glyphs they trace, the words they use, and how this all relates to how the world was stitched back together by the Source and its sisters?

And…

This one might well be the one true enigma in this writhing mass of questions, the one thing Ringil truly can’t make sense of, even though, ironically enough, it was the very question Seethlaw had been trying to answer.

What is the deal with those blood rituals?

Ringil is aware that the Book-Keepers do demand various sacrifices from those who would seek their counsel or teachings; there is always a price to pay. As far as he knows, though, they have no established and specific ritual of blood donations. When Hjel explained that the gifts from the Creature at the Crossroads never come for free, he didn’t make it sound like the price was necessarily a blood one.

No; as far as Ringil can see, this one aspect is specifically Aldrain.

The question becomes, then: where does it come from? Ringil is almost entirely certain that only the Codes could answer that question; at best, he can only take guesses in the dark. It doesn’t help that Seethlaw is not a storm-caller; he’s not a member of Clan Talonreach. His knowledge and understanding of those matters is bound to be incomplete and possibly even faulty. Ringil must be careful not to draw hasty conclusions on the subject based only on what Seethlaw told him.

Still, though…

He can see it happen so easily… The ancestors of the Aldrain were soldiers, and not just random levy soldiers either, but the best of special units: trained even beyond the limits of the human mind and body, dedicated to their mission to the point of single-mindedness, changed and molded in their very nature by the demands of the task they had undertaken.

It makes every sense that such soldiers would have willingly offered their own lives as the price to pay in order to use the Source’s powers. In fact, Ringil remembers now: Seethlaw did mention something to that effect, didn’t he? _”In our history, those chosen for this honour have always gone willingly to their end, as a warrior goes willingly to battle, knowing what their sacrifice is worth.”_ As a warrior goes to battle, indeed…

So blood is the price the Aldrain’s ancestors agreed to pay to use the powers of the Source? Maybe, maybe not… Only the Codes would know; only the Codes could tell if that part was inscribed in them from the start, an essential foundation of the Aldrain’s very existence, or if it’s a contract the dwenda came up with later on.

_Well… It’s not like you can just walk up to Seethlaw, or Risgillen, or whoever, and ask to talk to the power behind the Talons of the Sun, is it?_ So unless and until he finds a storm-caller willing to talk about it, Ringil will have to do with his own best guesses.

In the meantime and far more immediately, he’s left to wonder: if Seethlaw’s plan involves a blood sacrifice, does that mean he intends on calling upon the Source’s powers? And if so… To what end?

**

They pick Sherin up from the lonely, dilapidated bench on which Egar left her, and quickly file off into the forest again. There’s an ache, and a worried twist sitting deep in Ringil’s chest, at the idea of leaving the Dragonbane behind once more, a fear of what Dakovash might try next, how it might impact Egar and Archeth. He wishes he could talk to the demon god, tell him he’s wasting his time, but that’s not going to happen as long as he’s travelling with his Aldrain companions. He can only hope that nobody in the Dark Court will attempt anything drastic to prevent him leaving Ennishmin…

The rain stops soon after. As promised, the road is easier, flat and well-defined, even if the still-wet mud makes it somewhat slippery. Now that Sherin has proper boots on, and has had time and opportunity to somewhat gather herself, her marsh blood heritage pours through; she seems to glide along the path, light and swift, like some marsh spirit. Between her and the ever-graceful dwenda, Ringil is once again left to feel like the boorish, uncoordinated odd one out, just as during the last leg of his travel to Ennishmin with Seethlaw and Risgillen and the others.

That’s when, suddenly but almost gently, the true understanding of yet another thing Seethlaw told him quietly falls over him.

_”The marsh dwellers on the Naom plain are the closest to kin that the Aldrain have in this world. Thousands of years ago, their clans were favoured retainers to the dwenda, favoured enough that we mingled our blood with theirs. Their descendants, in however attenuated a form, carry our bloodline.”_

Ringil stares.

He stares at his cousin, who is walking in front of him.

He stares at Seethlaw, all the way to the front of the column.

The world spins and shifts. His mind understands the words now, but something sharp and mutinous in his chest still refuses to accept their meaning.

Again and again, his eyes settle on the human, and then on the dwenda. Sherin doesn’t have Seethlaw’s poise, but there’s absolutely no denying that she’s at home in this marsh environment in a way very few humans are - and she didn’t even grow up out there in the marshes outside of Trelayne!

It’s simply in her blood - literally. She belongs to the marsh just as much as the dwenda do… because she _is part dwenda._

Ringil knows somewhere in the back of his mind that obviously, that’s not the only reason. The marsh-dwellers would belong to the marsh anyway just by virtue of having lived there for generations, Aldrain blood or not. But he finds that he can’t make himself care about this, or about anything but the fact that—

He almost snorts in disbelief, and it comes out as a cough, when he realises what his problem is.

_Really, Gil, really? You’re fucking_ jealous!? _Jealous of a woman who has a drop of Aldrain blood in her veins and you don’t??_

… Yes. Yes, he is.

It’s ridiculous. It’s beyond childish, puerile. And it’s so pointless as to be outright idiotic.

But he can’t help it. It claws at him from the inside out, it tears his breath to shreds right within his lungs, this knowledge, so intensely acute it’s almost a spike skewering his nerves, that Sherin, the cousin he came all the way here to rescue, shares something with the Aldrain - with _Seethlaw_ \- that Ringil will never have access to.

He wants to laugh at his own idiocy. He wants to cry at how it feels like some monstrous, unfathomable _loss_.

He should be _glad!_ Glad not to be related to those murderous would-be invaders. Glad not to be on their list of potential blood sacrifices. Glad…

He should be glad, but he’s not, and it doesn’t make any sense, because why should he want to be related to the man he loves anyway, _that’s not how these things work for fuck’s sake,_ might as well want to fuck his own brother while he’s at it!

No, none of it makes any sense, but he can’t help it, can’t help the smothering loneliness which drops over him like a net, wraps around him like a trap, as he - lowly, pure-blooded human - walks alone among the Vanishing Folk and their distant cousin…

**

Sherin doesn’t need as many pauses today. They only take a short one mid-morning, and then a proper one about mid-day.

And once again, Pelmarag is right back at it. Ringil is the one who makes sure Sherin is comfortable on the low stone they’re sitting on, but when he turns around, Pelmarag is there as well, squatting barely a yard away, rooting around in one of the bags. With that easy grin on his face, he hands first Sherin then Ringil pieces of rough black bread, hard strips of cured meat, several small apples, and finally a full water-skin.

He’s already turning away while pushing himself upright when Ringil grabs his arm. In true Aldrain fashion, Pelmarag converts his sudden loss of balance into a fluid, elegant move where he ends up sitting back on his heels again, facing Ringil with nothing more than a surprised look on his tilted face.

“Yes?”

Ringil scowls, because no matter how much he’s thought about it, there’s simply no smart way to phrase the question on his mind. “What’s the deal here? You the designated human-herder or something?”

Pelmarag blinks, frowns, and shrugs, and that damn grin pops up again, though there’s a frayed, brittle edge to it this time. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

Ringil chews and swallows the piece of bread he’s bitten off. “Explain.”

Pelmarag swivels on his heels with an easy grace that’s almost insulting. Not much, just enough that he can keep talking to Ringil while glancing at Seethlaw, reclining against a tree half a dozen paces away, with his arms wrapped tight around himself and his empty gaze staring blindly up at the foliage overhead - and gods, it hurts Ringil to see him like that! This is _not_ the Seethlaw he knows!

If he weren’t so afraid of starting another disastrous chain of events, he would go and grab that impostor and demand that it bring back the real Seethlaw, the one who _talked_ to Ringil, who tried to explain and convince, and who certainly didn’t let himself be reduced to the role of mostly unnecessary scout.

Ringil knows that the argument back at the stables, in the shadow of the Kiriath weapon, broke something in Seethlaw. He noticed it the first time around, even if he paid little attention to it back then. This time, it’s so obvious that he couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. He still doesn’t understand how such a foreseeable altercation could have such results, but it did, and that’s all he needs to care about for now.

“That was my job, see,” Pelmarag eventually says in a low, tight voice. “I’m Clan Illwrack on my father’s side, but I spent most of my time with my mother’s folks. We worked with the Supervisors to help the human refugees from the war. They—”

There’s a hitch in the ever-melodic flow of his words. He screws his eyes shut, takes a breath. His Naomic is rougher when he speaks again.

“They needed food, and homes, and jobs to keep from going crazy. They needed safety, reassurance that the nightmare they had just escaped from was not going to find them again.”

The images flood Ringil’s mind, unbidden, as they always do, even after so long. It’s been more than a decade now, but the passing of time has not dulled the immediacy of the horror in the least.

How many columns of refugees has he watched pass by him? Men and women carrying all that was left of their lives on their backs, or in carts for the luckiest, or wealthiest, among them, though wealth had a way of quickly becoming irrelevant in those situations, no matter how many generations of one’s ancestors had toiled to accumulate it.

In the background, stood razed villages, burning cities, or just the stench of panic as the armies of the Scaled Folk approached - or the even more stomach-turning stink of human cruelty, when entire populations were “relocated” simply because of a diplomatic treaty signed hundreds of miles away, and which most of them couldn’t have read anyway.

Ringil never forgot. At this point, he doesn’t think he will _ever_ forget.

Nor, perhaps more importantly, forgive.

Pelmarag’s voice is a rasp as he remarks, “In the end, it was all a lie anyway. Turns out, we couldn’t keep them safe after all. After so many centuries of war, with every city falling one after the other, nowhere was safe anymore.” He shrugs, opens empty eyes again. “But as long as we could still find food for them, and give them somewhere to lie down at night with a roof over their head, we kept going.”

His gaze is haunted as he fixes Ringil before finishing. “It was our duty, and we did it as best we could, until it was all over, and we had to tell them that they would have to deal on their own after all.” He looks away again, takes a harsh breath, lets the last words out on a defeated whisper. “Or they could go to the Black Folk and _their_ human allies instead, and we’d understand.”

He falls silent for good then, mouth pressed into a thin line, jaw set, eyebrows drawn tight together.

For a fleeting moment, he looks every single one of his however many thousands of years.

Ringil waits a minute, before asking quietly, “Are you the one in charge of the prisoners back there?”

Something slips in Pelmarag, at the same time as he pulls himself together, visibly escapes the clutch of the hopeless past. Ringil couldn’t even say what tips him off, whether it’s something on the dwenda’s face, or in his crouched stance, or even in his breathing. He can’t pinpoint it, but he’s felt it and he can still hear it in Pelmarag’s too-guarded voice when the dwenda evades answering by asking a question of his own, “Why do you want to know that?”

Ringil does his best to scowl and shrug and to sound nothing else but annoyed when he explains, “Because whoever’s in charge is doing a shitty job of it.”

Pelmarag barely reacts. He doesn’t seem offended, nor surprised. Ringil could swear that he agrees with the accusation, but just doesn’t want to say so.

“What do you mean?” Again, his tone is too light, too neutral.

Ringil’s gaze flickers to Seethlaw. He wants— he wishes— his heart falls. He wishes Seethlaw would _listen,_ and understand that Ringil is trying to help, that there are ways to move beyond their argument, but Seethlaw’s lost in a world of his own.

So Ringil glares at Pelmarag instead and explains, quickly, because he can’t reach Seethlaw, but maybe he can help the prisoners still, in however small a measure.

“All those people you’ve got there, they’ve been through the hands of the slavers. You don’t need to try to break them, because they are _already_ broken. Just give them a good life, and they’ll be more than happy to stick around. There’s absolutely no need to threaten them, let alone to torture them. You’re just making yourselves look even worse than the slavers with those fucking heads staring at them!”

He’s not happy to provide advice on how to be a more efficient slave master, but if he can’t free the prisoners - and he can’t, at least not yet - then the least he can do is attempt to make their lives less miserable. He’s seen first hand what even a few weeks of slavery can do to the human spirit, how profoundly and irreparably it can break it. Poppy Snarl’s slaves, the ones he “freed”… A few still had enough fight in them to take that chance, but he will never forget the despair which welled in him as he watched most others just sit there, waiting for nothing, waiting for someone to tell them what to do - waiting, ultimately, for their death, and they didn’t care anymore at whose hands it would come.

It doesn’t _have_ to be that way here! The dwenda have their own brand of cruelty, but unless they are provoked to anger or annoyance, it’s mostly a mindless, dispassionate one, born from disinterest, arrogance and lack of understanding. It’s not the human slavers’ sadistic, deliberate contempt for fellow human beings, and there’s room in that gap to nurture however much compassion the dwenda can be made to feel. Ringil is determined to try, both for the sake of those particular slaves, and as a test regarding what he can expect to accomplish later on, in his more wide-reaching plans regarding the reclaiming of Ennishmin.

He stares deep into Pelmarag’s empty eyes. He has to make him _understand._

“You could make yourselves look like their _saviours,_ with just a bit of efforts, and then they’d be _happy_ to stay. They wouldn’t _want_ to run, because they’d _know_ that they wouldn’t have a chance at a better life out there.”

Pelmarag is perfectly silent, perfectly still. If not for the intensity in his eyes, he could pass for a statue.

Ringil leans forward. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Those heads, those punishments, they are only accomplishing the _opposite_ of what you want.” He catches himself, then decides to spit out his final words after all. “It’s _stupid!_ ”

And then Pelmarag closes his eyes once more. He sighs, seems to deflate with it.

There’s a deep wariness etched on his face when he opens his eyes again and answers quietly.

“I know that, Ringil.” A bitter, oh-so-bitter smile bends his lips. “That’s the reason I’m not the one in charge of them. I’m not trusted to be, ah, _firm_ enough.”

Ringil bristles. Several thoughts instantly crowd his head, such as the chilling reminder that not two months ago, Pelmarag willingly participated in a violent attempt at taking Ennishmin by force. _”Fucking humans everywhere, running around screaming and jabbering in the dark like the lost souls of apes, you know, cut one down and there’s another right fucking behind it.”_ How many humans, both Imperial soldiers and innocent civilians, did Pelmarag personally kill during that ill-fated attack? How many did he watch die, with no consideration whatsoever for their anguish and their pain? How can someone like him be considered _too soft_ to be trusted with a bunch of trapped slaves!?

_Oh, I don’t know, Gil. Remember how you allowed the men you had hired to rape Poppy? What was that supposed to accomplish, exactly? And then remember how you abandoned those same men, and all the slaves you had so generously ‘freed’, to the whims of the incoming Hinerion cavalry? You knew what was going to happen to them, and yet you still ran, didn’t you? And of course, let’s not forget how you engineered and allowed the sacking of Trelayne, your very own home and birth city… Yet, here you are, caring about the well-being of a few slaves - a few slaves whose existence you carefully pretended to ignore as you carried Sherin out from their midst, too… So tell me, Ringil Eskiath, who are you to talk, exactly?_

Ringil grits his teeth. _Focus, Gil, focus._ What matters… What matters, for now at least, is that Pelmarag seems to be both able and willing to care for humans, sometimes, in some circumstances, which is more than can be said about the other dwenda - and quite frankly, more than can be said about a whole lot of humans as well.

Speaking of the other dwenda… The question blurts out of Ringil’s lips before he can fully consider the unease lurking behind it. “Not trusted by whom?”

Pelmarag’s small smile turns sad and almost… soft? as his gaze lingers over Ringil’s face, before he shakes his head.

“Not Seethlaw. He’s too busy _obtaining_ the offerings. The job of caring for them was delegated to” — a quick look away, a hesitation — “other people.”

Ringil has an idea of who those ‘other people’ might be - but then again he might be completely wrong, too.

“Well… You tell those _other people_ what I said, if you have a chance, all right?”

Pelmarag opens his mouth, hesitates again, closes it. Shakes his head, and sighs. “I’ll do what I can,” he says finally.

Ringil nods brusquely, and bites into an apple.

His entire mouth puckers around the chunk of fruit. He blinks in unpleasant surprise.

By the time he’s forced himself to swallow the piece of abomination instead of spitting it out, Pelmarag has long left to go stand next to Ashgrin. Ringil notices that, for once, he doesn’t take part in the conversation between the other three dwenda. He also notices how often his gaze slips over to where Seethlaw is still leaning back against his tree.

Well… That’s another change. Of sort.

Whether Ringil can leverage it to his advantage remains to be seen, but it’s a start.

**


	6. Ringil

Sherin makes it through the afternoon with only one more pause. Then it’s evening, and it’s far too dark under the cover of the trees, with only the weak band light diffusing through the clouds, for either her or Ringil to keep going safely. So the group stops; one of the dwenda magics some fire out of somewhere, and they all force themselves to eat, as unpleasant as the food may be.

That’s when Ringil notices something so obvious that it baffles him he didn’t see it before. He can only assume it’s another mind trick Seethlaw played on him, though why he would do that, Ringil can’t fathom.

He notices it because of the firelight, and the way it plays across the various bodies huddled around it. Five dwenda, five bone-white faces hanging like empty masks in the darkness - but only four armours gleaming dully.

He’s grown so used to it, from the moment Risgillen first appeared, and then Pelmarag and Ashgrin joined her as well, that it just seems like the natural order of things, that every single dwenda they’ve met on the road and in Ennishmin should be wearing their armour.

Every single one of them - except Seethlaw.

He’s still wearing the same civilian clothes he showed up in on the first morning, after his and Ringil’s first night together, back in Trelayne.

Everyone - _everyone_ \- else has been wearing their armour. And Ringil remembers that in their previous life, Seethlaw also, finally, took to wearing his on their very last night, in Ibiksinri. Ringil will never forget the way Seethlaw pulled his helmet off one-handed, and knelt there in an ever-growing pool of his own blood, arm dead at his side, empty eyes blazing with fury and pain…

He had the armour with him in that place he occupied in or under Trelayne, whatever he meant by that. And he retrieved it somehow to wear it on that last night. But not in-between.

Not _now,_ even though everybody else does.

And maybe, ultimately, it doesn’t actually mean anything, but it’s yet another way in which Seethlaw sticks out, fails to follow the seeming customs of his people, and whether that’s related to Ringil’s presence or not, it’s worth keeping a note of in a corner of Ringil’s mind. One never knows what might turn out to be significant or useful.

After all, it’s one of the most basic lessons Ringil has ever learnt and taught about leadership: a true leader must lead first and foremost by example. This is how he turned what should have been a desperate last stand in Gallows Gap, into a victory that changed the course of the entire war. That is how Grashgal and Flaradnam lived - and how ‘Nam died: by doing what they expected the people under their command to do.

But it’s not how Seethlaw lives - because when all is said and done, he’s not a _leader._ Despite his angry little rant the other day, he doesn’t _care_ to lead. If anything, the clumsy, rattled way in which he scolded his sister and allies, reeked of the unsettled posturing of someone who doesn’t know how to command obedience from his troops.

In fact… Ringil remembers that Seethlaw specifically asked for their _allegiance_ and _trust_ \- not their loyalty, not their submission, but only their willingness to _help_ him achieve their common goals, and their respect for his ability to do his part. That’s a lot closer to cooperation than leadership.

So no, Seethlaw is not a leader. He may try to present himself as one, but to someone like Ringil, who knows what true leadership looks like, from both having witnessed it and having handled it, it couldn’t be clearer that, unconsciously at least, Seethlaw doesn’t see himself as a leader, let alone properly position himself as such.

He told Ringil that the Aldrain are solitary by nature, and indeed, that is how Ringil has seen him live his life during those too short few days they spent together. Back in Trelayne, Seethlaw worked alone; Ringil knows that most dwenda don’t like being _”tied to time and circumstance,”_ but there’s no changing the fact that Seethlaw’s efforts at building the cabal and gathering the blood offerings would have proceeded a lot faster with even just one or two rotating partners by his side. He worked alone because, in the end, that was how he preferred it, even if it meant spending so much more time in the real world, so many more days _”sickening from the brute animal stupidity of its ways.”_

As Ringil knows only too well, Seethlaw is forceful; he will _fight_ to have his way, yes - though it can be surprisingly easy to counter him - but he’s not a leader and doesn’t care to be one. He only cares to be left alone to do his part any way he wants, and then he expects everyone else to fulfil their own obligations, without him even having to tell them what they are. That’s not leadership.

And it’s not just Seethlaw either: it’s Risgillen as well, and Atalmire, and Lathkeen, and even right now, right here, Pelmarag, Ashgrin, and their other two still-nameless companions. Ringil has never seen a single one of them make a one-sided decision and enforce it over the others. The closest they came to it was when Pelmarag left to go buy clothes for Sherin, and instructed Ashgrin to lead the others into the inn, back at the ferry place - but even that had been at Ringil’s request first.

And Risgillen… Ringil remembers only too well her bone-headed stubbornness, and yet, even at her most determined in the ultimate depths of her grief-induced insanity, she’d still had to keep on _convincing_ her scheme partners, both humans and Aldrain, until the very end - because she didn’t know how to _impose_ her will on anyone once and for all.

None of them do.

_And that’s why they need humans to do it for them._

It finally truly hits Ringil for the very first time, even though he’s been told about it so many times.

The Aldrain have, or at least had, some kind of social hierarchy among themselves. Anasharal said so: _”Many Aldrain clans peopled the Earth in those times, but no name among those clans stood in such high regard as that of Illwrack - the royal house.”_

But when it came to _leadership,_ they relied entirely on humans. That too, Anasharal explained: _”For this has ever been the way of the Aldrain - not to rule subject races by their own hand, but to find those among the subject race who can be groomed and fitted to rule on their behalf.”_

Anasharal was wrong on one detail, though: this wasn’t just about the “subject races”. It wasn’t just about humans. It was about the Aldrain themselves as well. The Dark Kings didn’t rule only over men; they ruled over the dwenda too.

And on that very last fateful day, in spite of the fact that they had managed to provide an Aldrain commander to lead their thousands-strong army in that last stand against Ringil, they were _still_ waiting for their _true_ leader, weren’t they? They were waiting for their battle marshal supreme, for Cormorion the Radiant resurrected through Ringil.

Cormorion Ilusilin Mayne - a human.

Ringil represses a snort. It can’t help but strike him as the greatest irony in the history of this whole fucking world that a people descended from hyper-dedicated soldiers should have lost the very concept of leadership, the ability to organise themselves into any kind of proper army.

Yet, there it is: the Aldrain don’t do leadership, and that’s why they need humans to do it for them.

That’s even how their Empire fell in the end, isn’t it? It was the human retainers who actually ran it, with at their head, the Illwrack Changelings, Champions to both people at once, humans and Aldrain. Human champions, chosen, trained and then anointed for that role by the Aldrain, as leaders of a unified society of humans and dwenda.

So when Cormorion fell, the last of the Dark Kings - and why were they even called that, Ringil would like to know - it was the entire system which fell with him. It wasn’t just that the Aldrain lost that battle; it was that they lost the very core of their civilisation, the linchpin on which everything else hung. Without a King to lead them, the war itself became meaningless. In a way, Ringil supposes, one could say they never really lost the war at all, because they stopped fighting it when Cormorion fell. Without him, there was nothing left for them to fight _for,_ and nobody left to lead them into that fight.

And now…

Now Seethlaw is trying to rebuild the empire, but he doesn’t have a King to lead it, does he?

Or at least, he _didn’t_ have one.

_”A Dark Lord will rise.”_ The prophecy still stands.

_”I see what the akiya saw, Gil. I see what you could become, if you only let yourself.”_ Ringil rejected that path back then. He argued that he’d done all the becoming he was going to do - but he had been dreadfully wrong. He _did_ become something so much bigger and darker than anything he could have imagined.

And to what end? Death and Destruction everywhere in his path _anyway!_ He couldn’t end the slave trade. He couldn’t stop Jhiral from starting yet another full-on war between the League and the Empire - the very war Ringil wanted to avoid, the one he betrayed and killed Seethlaw to prevent. It cut him deep and hard when he learnt about it, but he had no time to dwell on it then. Now though…

Now he grows angry at the thought of it. Angry that all his efforts came to nought. Angry that Seethlaw - fabulous, passionate, immortal Seethlaw - had to die for the sake of avoiding a stupid human war _which happened anyway in the end!_ It hurts, it fucking _hurts,_ to realise that if only Seethlaw had waited a few more years, then Jhiral would have handed him his war on a silver platter! All Seethlaw had to do was _wait a few more years_ \- and what are a few years to an immortal being?

Then the Aldrain armies could have swept in and reclaimed their position as rulers, and quite frankly? As far as Ringil is concerned, the humans would have deserved it, for being such hopeless arseholes to each other. More than four thousands years spent living alongside the Kiriath, with the Kiriath desperately trying to guide them onto more enlightened paths, into more peaceful ways, and what do they have to show for it in the end? Torture, slavery, rapes and murders galore - and wars, wars, and more wars, always and forever…

They would wail about their right to be free, of course. How unfair to be under the rule of another race, they would say. Except that this argument has no legitimacy at all, when set against the background of _slavery,_ does it? A race which enslaves its own people has no right to speak of freedom - does not, some might even argue, _deserve_ freedom.

As for the Aldrain… Ringil can’t fathom _why_ they want to come back to the real world, when they can’t stand living in it for long, but he doesn’t doubt that they do. He’s heard the way Seethlaw speaks of it; he’s seen how Risgillen picked the task up after he fell, how she gathered ever more people in support for that cause. They _want_ it.

And…

It’s true that just a few days ago, in another life, Ringil yelled at them, _”That’s who you really are, you stupid fucks - the lost and wandering bastard children of men. And we don’t want you back - we never did.”_

It’s true that he asked Risgillen, _”You never fucking learn, do you? There’s no place for you in the world anymore. It does not want you back.”_

He meant it, at the time. He meant all of it.

But then again, if someone had asked him then whether the world would be better off with or without _humanity_ in it…

And if someone asked him this _now_ …

Yeah.

Humanity. The Aldrain. The Dark Court. _Fucking arseholes, each and every one of them._ And if men and the Dark Court have a supposed right to live in this world they mangled and keep mangling every day… then why should the Aldrain get any less?

From what Anasharal said, life for men in the Aldrain Empire was no worse than the mess it is now. Men have always wanted masters. That’s what the Kiriath based their entire Empire project on, after all. That was the reasoning behind that whole so-called Mission of theirs: better a manipulative and manipulated tyrant than letting human beings manage themselves, because _that_ is guaranteed to end in disaster every single fucking time.

And by all accounts, the Aldrain were no worse masters - and possibly far better ones - than any of the Kiriath-backed Emperors. So, if they want a part of the world for themselves… Bastard children of men that they are, who once built a world-spanning Empire all on their own, and could only be ousted through betrayal and a forced alliance between the Dark Court and the unwilling, trapped Kiriath…

Why shouldn’t they fucking get it after all?

_Couldn’t do worse than humanity itself keeps doing._

The Aldrain don’t have a right to supremacy, of course not, because nobody does. But they do have a right to a place in this world - a right to _their_ place. They are children of this world just as much as the human race is, even if they can’t remember exactly how. There’s no moral or logical reason why they should be forever locked out, especially when humans are doing such a terrible job of living on their own anyway.

Seethlaw was right on the general concept: there _is_ enough room for the two races to co-exist. It’s just the _particulars_ of his plan that Ringil can’t agree with.

But a plan can be changed.

_Seethlaw’s mind_ can be changed. Ringil has done it before; he can do it again.

And…

Ringil blinks.

_”I see what you could become.”_

… When Seethlaw said it, Ringil only heard the pity, the disappointment. Seethlaw’s tone was urgent, and pleading, but to Ringil it sounded like his father’s despair at how high Ringil could have risen in Trelayne society if only he would accept to abandon his more unsavoury practises, and agree to play the social games expected of all nobles.

But that wasn’t at all how Seethlaw meant it, was it?

The Aldrain _don’t do_ regret; they don’t do “could have been” or “might have been”. They couldn’t have survived for millennia exiled in the Grey Places if they did. And so no, Seethlaw was not expressing regret over Ringil’s wasted potential.

He wasn’t trying to convince Ringil to _change_ who he was. Quite the contrary: he was begging Ringil to _become_ everything he could be. That’s what he said! _”I see what you could_ become _.”_

Seethlaw wanted Ringil to embrace his potential as a Dark King - knowing full well what it would mean for the Aldrain in turn.

Ringil’s breath catches in his throat as a layer of mental fog is torn apart in front of his eyes, and he’s faced with the bottomless depths of Seethlaw’s true feelings.

That day in Ennishmin… _”I see what you could become.”_

That night in Ibiksinri… _”What have you done?”_

Ringil didn’t understand. He didn’t even _begin_ to understand!

Seethlaw didn’t just want to use Ringil’s strength. He was also, in return, pledging to submit himself, _and his entire people,_ to Ringil’s eventual power.

Even after he’d worked so hard on his own to carve a new place for the Aldrain in the real world… As soon as he found Ringil, he wanted him to step in, to take control - to lead and reign, as _King._

Ringil remembers the worship and the love in the voice of every single dwenda who ever spoke of Cormorion - and his chest tightens so harshly he can feel his heartbeat in his skull, his fingertips, his toes.

This - this love, this worship, this submission - _this_ is what Seethlaw wanted for him too! Ringil didn’t see, because _he_ never wanted any of this - still doesn’t want it, in fact - but in turn, that made him blind to Seethlaw’s true intentions, made him misunderstand the dwenda’s words and desires, made him project onto Seethlaw what could have been expected from a human.

But Seethlaw is not human, and while the Aldrain are nowhere as different from men as they like to imagine they are, there are still some key aspects Ringil is yet only learning to grasp.

Such as their absolute devotion to their human-born Kings.

Ringil may not be such a King yet, but that’s still what Seethlaw saw - still sees now - in him anyway. _”I see what the akiya saw.”_

The future King.

The future King, who must be both trained and obeyed, even though Seethlaw doesn’t know how to do that, because that’s not how those things were done back in the times of the Aldrain Empire. Back then, Ringil would have been selected as a child, raised among the dwenda, and crowned as an adult. Seethlaw doesn’t know how to deal with an untrained adult King - and this explains _so much!_

Ringil remembers: right from their first night together, in every matter, Seethlaw has kept losing control whenever Ringil opposed him, has kept deferring to Ringil’s will even when he shouldn’t, when he mustn’t. Right from the start, Seethlaw has kept slipping between the need to train Ringil, and the urge to obey him. He took him to the Grey Places to train him, yet he gave him Sherin back for free. _”I’m going to fulfil your obligations for you.”_ Of course he would; that’s what any proper retainer would do for his King, isn’t it?

And now…

Ringil swallows quietly as he steals a glance into Seethlaw’s closed face.

It all makes sense. Seethlaw broke down when Ringil absolutely refused to have anything to do with him, with the Aldrain, with their dream of coming back to the real world once more - and how could he not? In his eyes, he hadn’t just lost a lover and a potential ally; he’d lost a future Dark King. It was so much more than a private disappointment!

He’d failed to secure the Aldrain’s next leader, nothing less than that. No wonder it shook him to his core…

Ringil represses a sigh. _Oh, Seethlaw… You, you… You, gorgeous, hopeless idiot… How could you take this so seriously? How could you not see that I was just too sick, and tired, and that I lacked even the beginning of an understanding to make a proper decision!?_

But, well… Ringil knows how, doesn’t he? He knows what Seethlaw saw in him, and he knows Seethlaw’s intense character, all-consuming even to the point of self-destruction. Seethlaw’s passion is a raging fire: wild, impossibly bright, powerful to the point of inextinguishable - and like all fires, at the mercy of the changing winds.

When Seethlaw found Cormorion, he gave him everything he had, pushed him and pulled him and made him the youngest and possibly most powerful of all the Dark Kings the Aldrain had ever created.

When Seethlaw learnt that the Kiriath had left the Earth, he immediately set out to reconquer it for his people, at any price to himself, his own comfort, his own physical and mental health.

And when Seethlaw found Ringil… When Seethlaw found Ringil, he saw him on the throne already, and he let himself be killed rather than destroy that hope.

The realisation of the true quality of Seethlaw’s obsession with him wakes ghosts in Ringil’s mind, now, makes his heart twist with a grief he thought he’d long buried - makes his soul burst with a _hope_ so bright and engulfing, it _hurts_ as it crackles along every nerve in his body, wraps itself around every wound in his memory.

Nobody, fucking _nobody_ in Ringil’s entire life, has ever looked at Ringil the way Seethlaw does, ever seen in him half as much as Seethlaw did - and gods, does it _ache_ as the questions Ringil cannot bear to confront dance round and round in his head!

Why couldn’t anyone—

Why couldn’t his _father_ —

Why couldn’t his own people—

Why couldn’t—

Why—

Why?

_Why!?_

Why did it take _a fucking Aldrain warlord_ to finally love him for himself, accept him as he is, even treasure him and see something good, something truly unique and valuable in him - and ultimately, _want_ him, _all_ of him, faults and quirks and weaknesses and all!?

_Why?_

Even before Seethlaw, the ones who came closest to truly accepting Ringil were Archeth and her people. They didn’t judge him; they didn’t call him names. They even thought him worthy of being taught as much of their millennia-old wisdom as he could understand.

But even they didn’t look at him the way Seethlaw did.

_”I see what the akiya saw.”_

And he did. He really did. He saw something terrible and beautiful, something very few humans possessed, and he valued it more than his own life in the end. He _wanted_ it, deeply, fundamentally, even if it should drive him to his own destruction.

He wanted everything Ringil was. He wanted everything Ringil could become.

He wanted everything Ringil had dreamt of giving to his own people, only to be rebuffed, despised, mocked, and even threatened with death, just for the crime of… of…

_Hell, even_ that _he wanted._

So when Ringil rejected Seethlaw…

_Gods, what did I do!?_

That’s the very question, the last question Seethlaw ever asked of him, isn’t it? _”What have you done?”_

But Ringil had no idea, back then. How could he have known?

How could he have known that he was throwing away his one, unexpected chance to be valued and respected for who he was? That he was throwing away his one chance to be appreciated in _every single way,_ even the ones he’d long tried to convince himself were nothing more than a hindrance, an iron weight clamped around his ankle to hamper him at every turn, an indelible mark of shame painted on his forehead to rob him of the rightful enjoyment of any and every one of his accomplishments?

There is none of this in Seethlaw’s deep, dark eyes, when he looks at Ringil. There is none of it in his soft, melodic voice when he shares with Ringil his hopes and dreams for the future. There is certainly none of it in the cool touch of his fingers, of his mouth, of his whole body, when he claims all of Ringil’s attention for an hour or a night, and gives every last thread of his soul in return.

Nobody else, in Ringil’s entire life, has ever accepted him as fully and unconditionally as Seethlaw does so easily and openly.

His mother stood by and said nothing as his father beat the shit out of him for the sin of being who he was.

Jelim… Maybe Jelim would have been that one person, had he been given a chance. As it was, they were both just kids, far too self-centred still to relate to each other on that kind of level.

Grace-of-Heaven always had a soft spot for him; Ringil always held a place of honour among the many youths he tutored, the many lovers he took to bed. But only an incurably romantic fool would think that Grace could ever love anyone more than his own interests. Ringil was _useful_ to him, to his business, and that was also always an integral part of Grace’s interest in the wayward Glades youth.

Noyal, on the other hand, innocent-eyed, steel-bodied Noyal, gave and gave of himself, freely, without ever asking for anything but a few stolen moments in exchange - and gods, it will never stop hurting that Ringil couldn’t send him back safely, couldn’t even send his _remains_ back home for a proper burial! But Noyal also never discussed anything, never alluded to what exactly he expected them to possibly become should they both make it back to Yhelteth. Noyal served the Emperor first and foremost, and the Revelation; both of these would forever stand between the two of them - and Ringil never harboured any illusion that no matter how deep Noyal’s affection for him may have been, it would ever have been enough to turn Ringil into anything but an “indiscretion” Noyal would carry on with until he was, inevitably, someday, ordered to drop it.

And then there was Hjel… Another dispossessed prince. Another group of people who didn’t care about _that_ aspect of his life at least. But that still wasn’t enough either, was it? There were so many things Hjel saw in Ringil and _didn’t_ accept: the Cold Commands, the rise of Ringil’s dark magic, his diving ever deeper into the _ikinri ‘ska_ … Yet all those things were just as much a part of who and what Ringil was, as his love for sucking cock. And though Hjel never outright rejected Ringil over those matters, Ringil can certainly remember too many dark glances, too much avoidance, too much dancing around some topics - and when there was nowhere left for Hjel to hide, when Ringil pressed too firmly and wouldn’t let go, the accusations and recriminations and concerns did come out after all, spilling from the dispossessed prince’s lips like so many drops of poison, no matter how hard he tried to hold them back. In the end, like everyone else, Hjel simply couldn’t accept every aspect of Ringil’s being, couldn’t take in every side of him without letting fear or regret or disgust creep in and ruin the trust between them.

Seethlaw, on the other hand, not only did that right from the start, but he saw even what Ringil could _become,_ and embraced it whole-heartedly.

Seethlaw offered Ringil the kind of love Ringil had never even dared hope for, never considered, never wondered about, because there had never been any room in Ringil’s life for such a thing.

And consequently, inescapably, Ringil failed to recognise it, and couldn’t deal with it in any way but by throwing it far away. _”I’ve had better than you drunk in a Yhelteth back alley.”_ The biggest lie he ever told, and he knew it as he said it, but it was the only way he could push back against the crushing vastness of the truth he could feel hovering over him, just waiting for his brain and his heart to properly process Seethlaw’s unsaid words, before it drowned him in a wave of emotions so deep and strong he unconsciously feared he would never surface and breathe again.

And he’s drowning again now in a way - but this time he’s not afraid.

Because this time, he has nothing to _be_ afraid of.

He’s already played that game, and lost absolutely everything he had to lose. Now he’s free - free to take every chance that’s offered to him. Free to risk everything, even his heart.

_Especially_ his heart.

And so he plunges into that wave, head first, and stares his options in the face.

***


	7. Archeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the books themselves do, this fic will play around with the points of view, the tenses, and the timeline. This chapter, despite being narrated in the past tense, takes place about four months after the previous chapters. We will get back to Ringil's adventures in the "past" in later chapters. (I suspect this explanation sounds more complicated than the actual thing is...)

Archeth frowned as she looked at the city pass them by through one of the carriage’s windows. “Last time I was here,” she said pensively, talking to nobody in particular, “we’d come to warn the League about the Lizard rafts which were going to land somewhere up in the Wastes.” She didn’t elaborate; she didn’t need to. Everyone else in the vehicle knew where she was going with that line of thought.

“Well…” Egar carefully cleared his throat. “I guess that just means you’ll have to come back under better circumstances someday.”

He had a point. She was immortal, after all. Even if it took her five hundred years to find such an opportunity, she could still make it happen, if she really wanted to. “I guess so.”

Silence fell on them again. They were getting close to the Embassy. Egar, Rakan and herself had dismounted from their horses outside of Trelayne, and joined Galat and Shanta inside their carriage. The arrival of the large, heavily armoured, recognisably Imperial official caravan, was going to be noticeable enough. There was no need to parade Archeth’s own unmistakable Kiriath self through the streets of the main League city on top of it, and risk creating a spread of panic as people wondered what impending disaster could bring the Black Folk themselves to those Northern parts again.

Not yet, anyway.

The usual uneasiness gnawed at Archeth’s insides as she once again reviewed the orders she’d been given by the Emperor himself. She knew this mission was as much an excuse to send her away from Yhelteth once again as a real need, but hidden under it all, there remained a rather disquieting kernel of truth, especially considering everything that had happened over the last few months.

_”There are reports that the League is consorting with… unidentified third parties, to lead some kind of attack on the Empire.”_

Behind all the convolutions and smoke-screens, this was the heart of the matter as Jhiral had shared it with her. And on any other time, Archeth would have scoffed at the idea, if only because there were no “unidentified third parties” the Empire could be worried about. The Majak were the only other real power up there in the North, and even should they manage to reach any kind of unified decision, they would have no reason whatsoever to bother with the Empire rather than the League.

Plus, Egar himself swore up and down that he had never heard a word of any such rumour in all his time as Clanmaster, and that was good enough for Archeth.

So if not the Majak, then, who else?

Six months ago, the answer would have been “nobody”. Now, though…

Archeth had found nothing during her one-month search of Ennishmin. Or more precisely, she had found nothing dwenda-related. She had, however, found Egar the Dragonbane, who told her he had been transported there by Takavach himself, for purposes the supposed demon god had not deigned to explain beyond the instruction that he was to “find a face from the past he was supposed to recognise and save.”

Archeth certainly was a face from Egar’s past, and she was in Ennishmin in the first place to escape the Citadel. Yet, they both agreed that surely that couldn’t be what Takavach had in mind. _”Not that I’m not glad to be of use to you as a bodyguard, Archidi, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t really see the Sky Dwellers caring enough about the internal politics of the Empire and the survival of a half-Kiriath that they would intervene personally in such a blatant way. That’s not their style.”_

She agreed. Assuming that the Dark Court even existed - something she was still not convinced of, no matter that Egar claimed to have talked to one of them himself - they would sooner want her dead than save her. After all, it was her people who had deliberately eradicated the cult of the Immortal Watch in the Empire and replaced it with the Revelation. Everything she’d ever been told about them said that the demon gods would not forgive such a slight so easily.

Of course, it was possible that they were trying to bring her to their side. The Citadel threatened her, they intervened to save her life, she ended up in their debt. That would make sense - if not for the fact that so far, they hadn’t directly talked to her about making such a deal in the first place. Moreover, if they thought she could bring the Citadel down all on her own… Then they were more stupid than demonic.

No, this wasn’t about her. She knew it.

She knew what it was about.

She knew it so well that it had given her the strength to convince Jhiral to grant her two of the same companions she’d taken to Khangset: Throne Eternal Captain Faileh Rakan and naval engineer Mahmal Shanta - along with the carriage and personnel needed to cater to Shanta, because forcing the old man to ride down to Khangset had been cruel enough; expecting him to survive a horseback ride to Trelayne was beyond foolish. The only change to her team was Citadel-appointed Holy Invigilator Hanesh Galat, replacing Pashla Menkarak, and being a whole lot more agreeable about everything, too.

It was all related. It had to be. An unexplained attack on Khangset by nobody-knew-who. Finding Egar in Ennishmin, supposedly sent there by a demon god, while investigating Elith’s claims as to the existence of the dwenda. And now this: the League consorting with “unidentified third parties”.

Third parties strong enough to back the League up in what would be a hopeless fight against the military might of the Empire.

Third parties elusive enough that nobody could name or identify them.

Third parties that could push the Dark Court - assuming they existed - into making an open move.

There was only one conclusion to that line of reasoning. No matter how impossible and insane it was, she still knew she was right.

She steeled herself as they reached the Imperial Embassy and trotted into the vast courtyard. The moment was nearly upon her when she would finally be fully informed of what the spies in the city had garnered, what the Ambassador could not dare to write down in correspondence, whether covert or official, to the Emperor. She wished, she really wished, that this intelligence, once properly exposed, would shatter her suspicions.

She could not make herself believe it, though.

*** 

“Well, fuck.”

That was as good a summary of the situation as any, Archeth mused as she watched Egar flop heavily into the deep armchair opposite her. She too had been pretty upset about it, until she’d come back to her room and indulged in a couple of nice, drawn-out krinzanz pellets. Now she was floating in that wonderful place where she could intellectually acknowledge that the situation was shitty, while not giving a single damn about it.

Krinzanz was awesome and she was an idiot for ever wanting to stop it.

She grinned to herself as she curled up in her own armchair and stared into the flames dancing happily in the fireplace. She could feel a manic phase creeping up on her, her brain seizing up with the icy burn of the drug. She didn’t fight it back; in fact, she welcomed it. Now that Egar had joined her, they were going to have to talk about all that nasty business, and it was going to be depressing as fuck, so she might as well enjoy the krin high while it lasted.

She turned her gaze on the Dragonbane, waiting for him to start the conversation. She personally was in no hurry whatsoever. She saw him dart a couple suspicious glances over his shoulders, and shrugged to herself. They were alone in her room, but, well, they were in an Embassy. There were undoubtedly ears listening somewhere, and maybe even eyes watching.

Bah. Let them spy. At this point, she was well past caring.

It wasn’t like she had anything left to hide anyway. The Ambassador’s private reports mentioned the words “dwenda” and “Ennishmin”, right there, in black ink on parchment. It couldn’t get any clearer than that, could it? Poor guy had been more than a bit shocked when none of them had batted an eyelid as he exposed the nature of the (not so unidentified, it turned out) third parties threatening the safety of the Empire. The Aldrain. The Vanishing Folk who’d apparently suddenly decided to un-vanish for some reason nobody could figure out at this point.

Awesome.

But of course that wasn’t what Egar wanted to discuss. If it were, he would have turned back when he’d entered her room and found her drugged to her eyeballs. They were going to debrief the whole thing tomorrow morning with Rakan and the others; anything he had to say on those matters could wait until then.

No, he was here for the _other_ major piece of information the Ambassador had given them - the one they hadn’t known about beforehand.

The one which had sent her straight to her krinzanz reserve as soon as she’d set foot in her rooms.

“Gil.” Egar’s voice came out low and quiet - _far_ too low and quiet for him - but she cringed as though he’d shouted straight into her ear all the same. “No way.”

She sighed and tried to hang onto the mindless, icy happiness of the krin. She could feel a metaphorical hole developing under her feet as anxiety pooled into the pit of the stomach, and she rebelled against it all. She didn’t _want_ to think about it, dammit! She didn’t _want_ to think about…

About…

“Gil. Fuck.” Her own voice, whispering in her ears, even though she didn’t remember speaking up.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck!

She screwed her eyes shut, pushed the heels of her hands into her forehead. “Gil, what the _fuck!?_ ”

When the Ambassador had started on this topic, she’d deflected - wildly, desperately, uncaring of how unprofessional it made her look. An imminent invasion by some kind of witch people who’d supposedly disappeared thousands of years ago, she could deal with. That was why she was here; she was ready for it.

She was _not_ ready to hear that Gil - _their_ Gil, Ringil Eskiath, hero of Gallows Gap, friend to Egar, and Archeth, and the Kiriath in general - had apparently turned traitor to his race and the whole lot of them, and allied himself with the fucking dwenda.

“Shit.” Last she’d heard of him, Ringil was still safely holed up in Gallows Waters, with no intention of leaving any time soon, especially not to go back to Trelayne.

Except that this was exactly where he was now.

Or more precisely, where he was now _yet again_. The time-line of his presence in Trelayne was mystifying at best, despite the Imperial spies’ best efforts at putting it together.

From what they had gathered, it had all started almost four months ago - at the exact same time Archeth and Egar were in Ennishmin, and Archeth would be an absolute damn fool to think it was all a big fucking coincidence. She couldn’t see _how_ it all fitted together, but she had no doubt that it did, somehow. 

So anyway, the reports went that four months ago, the lady Ishil Eskiath had personally gone to fetch her disgraced son in Gallows Waters to entrust him with some obscure family business. He’d stayed at his parents’ mansion, and visited all kinds of people all over the city. And then, after barely a few days, he’d vanished into thin air overnight.

”The opinions were split at the time,” the Ambassador explained. “You see, he was awaited for a duel at dawn that very day, so many were happy to argue that he had run out of fear for his life.”

Archeth had snorted at this, and heard Egar echo her disbelief. “Ringil Eskiath led the charge at Gallows Gap. He would never run from a duel.”

“Yes, my lady. That was what quite a few other, less respectable people, argued. They also pointed out that he had been asking questions about the slave trade in Etterkal, which…” The Ambassador had hesitated then, before delicately explaining that Etterkal was not the kind of place where one could simply barge in and expect to survive. Archeth’s hilarity had sobered right up.

“Now, _that_ would be far more Ringil’s style.”

“Indeed, my lady.”

Yet, against all odds and expectations, Gil had eventually resurfaced.

Three weeks later, when everybody thought him either hiding in shame far away, or thoroughly dead and buried for mixing with the wrong crowd, he’d shown up one morning on a horse, on the road from the East - _the road from Ennishmin_ \- accompanied by some woman who was apparently his cousin. That was, it seemed, the business his mother had entrusted him with: finding and bringing back that cousin of his, who had, if the Imperial spies’ sources were to be believed, been sold on the debt slave market. There was an odd lack of paperwork in her case, which Archeth might otherwise have dismissed as the inevitable clerical error that was bound to happen from time to time, but…

The road from Ennishmin. Another coincidence? _Yeah, right, and I’ll be giving a blow job to Jhiral when we get back._

Shit. The high from the krinzanz was definitely wearing out, leaving her burnt-out brain to struggle with the known facts and try to make any sense of them.

Like for example why Ringil, upon coming back, had barely visited his mother before taking up residence in the secondary house of a well-known criminal who’d climbed the social ladder high enough that he could afford a place in the Glades. What was _that_ about?

And how did it relate to the fact that he’d then stayed there for three weeks, barely going out, seemingly just _waiting for something?_

Until, once again, he’d disappeared.

Just like that. The house personnel that Milacar guy had appointed to serve him all swore on their mothers’ heads that he’d been there one moment, and gone the next. His horse was still there. His few clothes were there. The mountains of documents he’d been studying - agreements between the League cities, accords between the League and the Empire, trade partnerships, _and since when did Ringil care about such things anyway!?_ \- were still spread all over the table he had been using as a desk. He hadn’t told anything to anyone about leaving any time soon. All that was missing was, well, him.

Gone. Vanished. _Again._

This time, it had lasted nearly a month and a half, until one day he simply was back in that house on Replete Cargo Street. Nobody saw him enter the city, just as nobody had seen him leave it. He was back, and he was changed in at least two major ways, each as unbelievable as the other.

First, he wasn’t carrying the Ravensfriend anymore. That in itself would have been concerning enough for Archeth, who had never, ever seen Ringil without his Kiriath sword since Grashgal had crafted it for him. The fact that instead, he was openly, blatantly carrying a sword that was neither human nor Kiriath in its design, a sword which held onto his back with no visible scabbard, a sword which everyone described as looking otherworldly with a gleaming blue edge… That went far beyond concerning and straight into terrifying territory. _Gil, what the fuck is this about!?_

And then of course, there was the second, just as incredible change…

“Gil getting into politics.” Egar snorted. “If you’d asked me even yesterday, I would have told you that this was as possible as his taking a liking for pussy.”

Archeth nodded. Ringil’s fundamental inability to handle anything too political was the very reason he had eventually been forced to give up a more than promising career in the military. When push came to shove, Ringil Eskiath screwed politics and did what his conscience told him to do. It was no secret that he had very little respect for Archeth’s position in the Imperial court, and that no amount of money or power or _anything_ could ever have convinced him to imitate her.

And yet, here he stood, accused of working with and for the dwenda, and of conducting both secret and not-so-secret meetings with members of the Trelayne Chancellery and other assorted worthies and powerful people, with the apparent goal of reclaiming Ennishmin for the League or the dwenda or both, nobody was quite clear on that matter.

It was insane. And yet…

“Ennishmin.” Her voice sounded drab in her own ears.

Egar grunted. “And the dwenda, yeah.”

They were in agreement, then.

She sighed. “This is so very much _not_ how I would have chosen to see him again.”

“No shit,” came the flat reply.

*** 

The debriefing didn’t start well, not that Archeth expected any better.

Mahmal Shanta wasted no time, lancing the abscess as soon as they had all taken their seats around the table, in the supposedly safe room the Ambassador had put at their disposal. “My lady, far from me to doubt your infallible loyalty to the Burnished Throne, but…”

But they did. Her loyalty, and Egar’s. Of course they did.

She couldn’t even blame them! They _had_ to be suspicious. It would be a mark on _their_ loyalty if they didn’t confront her with the blatant open conflict she and Egar were facing, and didn’t demand that they explicitly state their position.

The only problem was: neither of them wanted to do that.

Archeth refused to repudiate her friendship with Ringil until she’d had a chance to talk to him, to listen to his explanations. And Egar had outright told her the night before that he would rather choose to leave their company, than be forced to speak up against Ringil on nothing more than the words of a bunch of spies.

That left them all in an impossible situation.

The cool fire of the krinzanz she’d sucked on before coming to the meeting helped her make the insane decision that needed to be made, say the unnecessarily dangerous words she couldn’t avoid saying. “My lord Shanta. Captain. Holy Invigilator.” Her gaze settled on each man in turn. “I could never again respect myself if I condemned a friend of my people and a hero of the Lizard Wars, without offering him a chance to explain himself.”

Shanta remained impassible; he probably hadn’t expected any less. Rakan briefly frowned, and his mouth thinned as he pressed his lips together, but he didn’t protest. As for Galat… The poor man was too conflicted himself to bother judging her, torn as he was between the Revelation’s teachings, which denied so much as the possibility of the existence of such beings as the dwenda, and what he was being told by an increasing amount of respectable witnesses.

She continued. It was an effort to keep her voice sounding cool and confident yet neither overbearing nor arrogant, but she had more than a century of practice; she could pull it off. “My first and foremost loyalty is and will forever remain to the Burnished Throne and His Radiance. Of this, you can be assured. Should Ringil Eskiath put me in a position of having to choose, there will be no hesitation on my part.” Saying the words was easy enough when she refused to believe that it would ever come to this anyway. “I will take any measure necessary to protect the Empire, no matter the personal price to myself.”

_I trust you, Gil. Don’t you make me act on that promise!_

Shanta shrugged minutely. She imagined that as far as he was concerned, this had all been nothing more than a necessary, ritualistic curtsy to proper appearances. Rakan was the one who had truly needed to hear her say the words, and he… seemed satisfied enough. For now. Good.

Though of course, “What about your bodyguard, my lady?”

She turned to Egar, to let him answer the question himself. They had discussed it the night before; he was prepared, and the oddly calm and cadenced rhythm of his voice betrayed that rehearsal.

“The lady kir-Archeth and Ringil Eskiath are both my friends. However, the lady kir-Archeth is working for peace. If it turns out that Ringil is indeed working for war, then there will only be one possible choice for me to make. Contrary to some rumours, as I am sure you all know better, we Majak do not actually feed on the blood of our enemies. I have seen more than my share of innocents fall to war; I will do my best to prevent another such conflict.” A pause, to give the necessary weight to his final words. “Even if it means killing Ringil myself.”

And done.

Rakan nodded, satisfied for the time being. Shanta and Galat fell in line after him. It was still a less than ideal situation, but it was the best they could settle for. The only alternative was to ride straight back to Yhelteth, explain to Jhiral that he must find another counsellor as trustworthy and competent as Archeth, reveal to them the secret of the existence of the dwenda, and send them up to Trelayne again. Not only would this take weeks they couldn’t afford to waste, but quite frankly, Archeth couldn’t think of anyone Jhiral could trust with such a mission, and she was quite sure Rakan was aware of that fact.

She was their best, even only, hope at this point, and she had paid obeisance to the expected declarations of loyalty to the Burnished Throne. It would have to do, until further developments.

So that was the first, most urgent crisis averted. Now, with a night of sleep or meditation behind them, they could settle down into a proper review of the information they had received the day before - and from there, make tentative plans as to how to deal with the incoming confrontation with Ringil and his… associates.

*** 

The last order of the day, late in the afternoon, was to draft an official invitation for Ringil to come meet with them at the Embassy as soon as possible. Archeth and Egar held very little hope that he would accept it: _if_ he consented to talk to them, it would be on his own terms, not theirs, especially in his home town - and they made sure to share those doubts with their companions, so none of them would react too strongly should it be met with a rejection.

A messenger was sent to the house on Replete Cargo Street, and Archeth was finally free to retreat to her rooms for a much-needed krinzanz roll. She took her time, slowly smoking it on the balcony while reclining in one of those long chairs which were so common in the Empire but looked thoroughly out of place here in the North. The evening chill was already rising in the air from the gardens below. There was a haze of grey clouds passing high in the sky overhead.

She tried as best she could to ignore how sick to her heart it made her feel to be in Trelayne, just a few streets away from Ringil, and yet she couldn’t go and see him. She couldn’t even contemplate talking to him again without her stomach filling with a leaden dread at the possibility that for the first time ever, they might meet as enemies.

Enemies!

How had _that_ happened!? The world had never made perfect sense, but this… this…

_Is it any worse than your people going home and leaving you behind?_

… Fuck.

She pulled on the last dregs of the krin, and very firmly stared at a couple of birds dancing on a branch twenty yards away from her balcony. _Don’t think. Don’t think, don’t think, dontthink!_

She sighed in equal relief and frustration when, not even an hour after the end of the meeting, someone knocked on her door.

It was Egar, his face twisted into a weary grin that told her everything she needed to know. “Rakan’s pissed,” he mentioned in a conversational tone as he handed her an unsealed roll of thick, luxurious parchment.

She’d already guessed the nature of the message it contained, but she still winced when she read the actual words. _Dammit, Gil…_ The letter was typical Ringil Eskiath lizardshit: couched in exquisite politeness superbly exhibiting his aristocratic education, but amounting more or less to, “Fuck you, I do what I want.” And what he wanted, apparently, was for _them_ to go meet him at _his_ place - or Milacar’s place, more accurately - and no sooner than four full days from now.

It was a slap in Archeth’s face, in the face of everyone who had put their signature on the invitation, and through them, an affront to the dignity and power of the Empire itself, hence Rakan’s predictable anger.

She sighed. “He’s determined not to help his case, huh?” She wasn’t surprised, just… not enthused at the idea of crossing hairs with Ringil. That was never pleasant.

Egar shrugged. “When is he ever?” That was true enough. They were, after all, talking about the man who she’d once had to rescue from an attempt at suicide-by-Imperial-officer, and to force into taking a break from the military before he actually did manage to get himself executed. When the break had turned into an early retirement… She couldn’t deny there had been relief in her heart, even if mingled with regret at the loss of such an exceptional soldier.

“Say, Archidi…” Uh-oh. She knew that tone. The Dragonbane was about to suggest something she wasn’t going to like.

“Yes?”

“How much trouble would you be likely to get into if your personal bodyguard, whose services you don’t need as long as you’re stuck in the Embassy, were to… take a walk around town?”

 _Sneak around._ Egar wanted to go out there and sneak around for more information. She understood why, too: they both knew Ringil well enough to realise how blind they truly were right now, and yet they couldn’t simply brief the Imperial spies on the kind of information they were after. The tangle of personal and political ties they were trapped in was too complicated and dangerous to even dare to begin to explain it to people who had a duty to report it all to the Ambassador, and through him, to the Emperor.

No, they had to go fish on their own - and as Egar had not-so-subtly pointed out, if anyone was going to do it, it couldn’t be Archeth, since she couldn’t set foot outside the Embassy without being immediately recognised for who and what she was.

She took the time to properly examine the proposal. On the one hand, she trusted Egar’s instincts; he had a gift for locating the right informants and making them spill the useful secrets nobody else seemed to know. On the other hand, he had no talent whatsoever for discretion; if anything went wrong, the entire city would soon know that the personal bodyguard of the Imperial Special Advisor, lady kir-Archeth Indamaninarmal, was snooping around and asking questions about League business. It wouldn’t be a scandal quite on the level as the one she’d unwittingly given birth to a hundred and fifty years ago, but Jhiral’s patience towards her was stretched enough that she couldn’t safely afford such a stunt.

Though she supposed she could at least try to mitigate the potential damage?

“A whole lot of trouble,” she said. His face clouded, and she grinned in response. “Which means rules!” He raised an eyebrow. “First: I never agreed to any of this, so if anything goes wrong, we’ll very publicly throw you out on your arse to deal with the consequences on your own.” That one was obvious; he nodded. “Second: for the love of everything you hold holy, please don’t kill anybody!” He snorted, but nodded again. “And third…” She lost the smile, and stared straight into his eyes. “Don’t get anywhere close to Ringil.”

He frowned right back at her, but nodded once more, easily enough. “That was never in my plans. I don’t want to give anyone such an obvious excuse to accuse either of us of high treason.”

“Good!” She clapped her hands. “In that case, well, I suppose nobody could object to a bored Majak indulging in some tourism, right?”

He let out a bark of laughter. “Tourism! Riiiight.”

***


	8. Archeth

Despite all the warnings she had given him, Archeth realised that she had absolutely expected Egar to land himself into troubles when... it didn't happen.

She felt oddly unsettled when he came back the next evening, unharmed, with no tales of fights to tell, and after the whole day had passed and yet nobody from among the Embassy personnel had asked to talk to her about anything the Dragonbane had done out there.

Huh.

Turned out he had tried to blend into the multi-cultural crowd of the diplomatic quarter and succeeded a tad too well. The old barber who had scraped his face and throat clean of the messy scruff he'd grown over the travel up North, had pointed him to the Marsh Daisy Baths as a place to enjoy both physical entertainment (read: whores) and intellectual distraction (read: gossip). And sure enough, he'd found plenty of both there.

But he hadn't learnt anything.

"Well, nothing we didn't already know anyway," he grumbled. "The word about the dwenda is definitely out there, but then Tervinala is right next to the Salt Warren, and that's where everyone says the dwenda first came."

The Embassy spies had told them as much; the real power - money - was to be found only in two places these days: in the coffers of the Glades aristocracy, as always, and in the hands of the slave traders in Etterkal. That last one was new, but just as influential. Even more so, in fact, because up in the Glades, appearances had to be maintained, while in the Salt Warren, anything could happen, anyone could be disappeared, and nobody who wanted to live would peep a word of complaint about it.

It made every sense that a group determined to start an underhanded war would bury themselves deep inside Etterkal first and foremost, and from there, would work on expanding their influence over the Chancellery, the residents of the Glades, and ultimately, all of Trelayne and the League. So it came as no surprise to anyone that Etterkal should be where everyone agreed the dwenda had first come, and were still based.

Meanwhile, Archeth and her remaining advisers - Shanta, Rakan, Galat - had spent the day poring over the very same documents Ringil was said to have left behind when he'd disappeared the second time. The Accords between the Empire and the League, they all already knew, but not so much the various diplomatic and commercial agreements between the City-States themselves. The Ambassador had assigned his own best counsellors to help them understand the subtleties hidden in the written clauses, and to outright tell them about all the ones that could only be spoken in the right company but which, as always and everywhere, held at least as much weight to everyone concerned.

"I do have a lead for tomorrow, though." Egar's careful voice cut through Archeth's endless ruminating. "But it might not work out, and if it does, you won't want to have known about it beforehand."

Archeth scowled but nodded. "Just remember the rules."

Egar grinned, a bit too savagely. "I wouldn't risk missing our meeting planned with our favourite faggot in two days, now, would I?"

**

The next day went very much like the previous one.

Archeth spent it in long, frustrating, yet oddly fascinating discussions with her usual companions. It was amazing, really, what being surrounded by people more bent on dealing with a situation than on whining about it, could do to one's mood.

Throne Eternal Captain Faileh Rakan was devoted to the Burnished Throne - but he was a military man first and foremost. Out here in Trelayne, so far away from the courtiers and the snake pit that was Yhelteth, he was far freer to let the veneer of polished restraint glide away, and to let shine bright the harsh, unforgiving tactical mind which had earned him unexpected, even miraculous victories during the war against the Lizards. Truth be told, Archeth saw a great deal of Ringil in the man - if only Ringil had ever learnt to play pretend politics to survive. And now that she might be about to go up against Ringil, it was no small reassurance to have Rakan at her back, both willing and determined to take any action which might be necessary. She hoped with everything she had that it wouldn't come to that, but if Ringil forced her hand, well...

Holy Invigilator Hanesh Galat, on the other hand, was utterly out of his element. There was no room for the Revelation up here in Trelayne. The Ambassador had told them, in cautiously couched terms, that while nobody would bat an eye at the presence of an Invigilator within Tervinala, that very same presence would be at best subtly and at worst openly mocked pretty much anywhere else in the city.

"They only have eyes for their demon gods, up here. Every time you mention the Revelation is another step down you take in their esteem."

That didn't mean Galat was useless, not at all. The man had a keen and surprisingly open mind; his counsel and observations - when he dared offer them - were highly valued by everyone around the table. Still, it couldn't be clearer that he felt hopelessly out of place. His presence was necessary to validate the entire process in the eyes of the Citadel; he was, so to speak, a living stamp to be used by Archeth once - if - she reached any kind of compromise with Ringil and whoever else threatened the safety of the Empire. That didn't mean he had to be happy about it, though, and his poor attempts at hiding his growing depression at the painful awkwardness of his situation, almost pushed Archeth into pitying him.

By contrast, Mahmal Shanta looked almost indecently happy. Archeth had expected that the old man would need days to recover from their travels, but it seemed as though a hot bath, plenty of properly civilised food, and a couple of good nights' sleep had been enough for him to recuperate. Above all, though, she knew that it was the puzzle which the Ambassador had presented to them, the one about Ringil and the dwenda, which had energised the old engineer's mind to an almost childish degree, and convinced him to ignore the minor ills and aches of his ageing body.

Shanta loved nothing more than a good problem to solve. Listing resources, drawing out tentative plans, providing for foreseeable drawbacks: he was in his element, even if this had nothing to do with naval engineering. He knew more than he'd ever wanted to about the logistics of war, and about the tactical dance of fighting enemies that wouldn't yet come out and declare themselves as such. He had been a close friend and supporter of Akal Khimran, had learnt the hard facts of open conflict by his side. By contrast, he had never seen eye-to-eye with Akal’s son, Jhiral, and yet, here he was, still alive and in possession of his fortune, long after many others among Akal's companions had been disposed of by his successor. Mahmal Shanta knew how to navigate dark waters - and for once, his own life was not even directly on the line.

Faileh Rakan. Hanesh Galat. Mahmal Shanta. Three men, each as smart and competent as the other, all of them devoted to finding a working solution to the problem at hand - and none of them brash or blind enough to risk the mission's purpose for simple matters of etiquette or personal bruised pride.

Archeth could hardly have asked for better support, and for a day, she almost forgot about the krin - and she definitely didn't touch the thing, which was both a surprise and an unexpected victory of sorts in itself. Her mind was edgy with _lack_ of krinzanz when Egar came back, just as empty-handed as the day before, but she was too eager to discuss with him the conclusions and tactics her little group had agreed on to bother.

**

And then the third day came, and everything went to hell.

**

Egar left early. There was an eager tug to his grin; he looked like a bloodhound who had caught the scent of its prey. It was his last day to make good on the hint he had told Archeth he had been given, and he seemed intent on tracking it down at any price.

She was torn between fondness at his own type of devotion to their mission, and, quite frankly, a deep worrying at the idea of how far he might go to fulfil his goal. She chose to put that fear away by hiding it behind her own busy-ness. Another day, another round of discussions at the war table.

… Or maybe not.

By the time noon came, they had run out of options to examine. Shanta wanted time alone to delve into the more complex intricacies of the trade and political agreements the various League cities had drawn among themselves. Rakan could not think of any detail they might have left out and asked for permission to go address his troops and prepare them for the days ahead. As for Galat, he was already firmly engrossed into a book written by an Imperial scribe and pretending to present the Dark Court from a Northerner point of view, when Archeth went looking for him after lunch.

She remembered how Ringil had sneered when he'd taken a look at that very book, years ago, down in Yhelteth.

"I trust," she started cautiously, "that you're aware you shouldn't put too much faith in what's written in there?"

Galat jumped and stared up at her with a slightly haggard look on his face. "Y-yes, my lady! It's just..." He huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I would read about the dwenda instead, but I've gone through the handful of books on Naomic legends I could find in the library here, and there's barely any explicit description of them at all! Plenty of mentions, but always in the spirit that the reader would obviously know what the tale-teller is talking about. That's... frustrating," he finished as delicately as he could.

She sat on the arm of a chair next to him. "Same problem I had with the Helmsmen, then? Supposedly, they were around during the dwenda wars, but none of them seems to have more than a very superficial memory of what they were like. Very helpful."

She hadn't quite managed to keep the bitterness she felt out of those last two words, and she saw Galat pick up on it. He was too diplomatic and mild-mannered to push the matter, though, and she found that she was both grateful and annoyed with him for it.

_Angling for a fight, Archidi? That's no good._

"Maybe..." The Invigilator hesitated. Archeth encouraged him with a tilt of her head. "Maybe we should have brought that, er, woman, with us after all?"

Ah, yes, Elith... Shanta had vaguely hinted at the same thing, before they left Yhelteth, but Archeth had been quite firm.

"There was no point," she explained. "I took her with me to Ennishmin, and she proved, well, useless, to be honest. Captain Rakan and myself tried to ask her every question we could think of, but other than her conviction that the dwenda are some sort of gods or guardian angels to the people of the Naomic plains, to be summoned in times of need, there was nothing coherent, let alone descriptive, in her ramblings."

Elith had no idea what the dwenda looked like - or more precisely, no more idea than anyone who had survived the attack on Khangset. She didn't know what the dwenda wanted; she'd only ever thought about what humans like her could want from them. All her answers to questions as to what kinds of weapons the dwenda might use, came down to "magic" in one form or another, and that just wasn't acceptable, neither to Archeth's Kiriath mind nor to Rakan's military one.

No, there had been nothing of worth to be pulled out of the poor woman's muddled mind, and so Archeth had chosen to leave her behind this time. Ishgrim - _memories of lush, pale flesh, and would you stop that already Archidi!?_ \- had seemed to find some relief in taking care of the clearly deranged woman. They spoke quiet Naomic together. The young slave listened with what seemed to be endless patience to the insane, circular ramblings of the older refugee, and then made her drink a cup of the soothing tea Kefanin kept bringing them, and eat a small piece of cake, and then took her for a walk around the inner courtyard.

Archeth couldn't quite figure out if the way the two exiled women seemed to bolster each other was more painful or more touching, reassuring even. More than anything, though, she wished her precious - bitter bent of her lips - Empire didn't mass produce neither slaves nor refugees in the first place, so she wouldn't have to deal with them in her personal life as well.

She turned her attention back onto the Holy Invigilator seated opposite her. "Say, my lord Galat, I was wondering..."

He eagerly raised his gaze from the book in his hands. "Yes, milady?"

She tried to keep her voice as respectful as she could. "I couldn't help but notice that you seemed a bit... lost, as we were discussing the dwenda. Was it just the lack of information regarding them, which was bothering you, or was it something else?"

The answer was obvious long before she even finished asking the question. Galat had looked away, with the same wince of embarrassment and confusion she'd caught on his face far too often lately.

"Ah... Well, you see, my lady..." He picked his words slowly, carefully. "I'm... struggling to classify those dwenda, according to the Revelation. It would be easy to label them as demons and leave it at that, but that would also be lazy, and as such possibly dangerously inaccurate. I cannot afford to be mistaken as to their nature, as it will inform which actions I should take, but at the same time, I lack sufficient information to reach a reasonably safe decision, and what little information we do have, is... inconclusive at best."

Archeth supposed this made sense. The Revelation had had to make room for beings such as the Kiriath and their Helmsmen, after all, and while it had been awkward and sometimes even covertly hostile, the compromise left the door open for the existence of other, similar entities out there - not humans, not angels, not demons, not anything the Revelation had words or classifications for.

And it wasn't just the dwenda either... Archeth jutted her chin towards the book on Galat's knees. "What about the Dark Court?"

The sigh which escaped from Galat's lips was almost as pitiful as the smile he gave her. "The Revelation is clear about those ones: they cannot exist. Magical beings is one thing; after all, your people explained at lengths that what appears to be magic is often nothing more than technology we do not yet understand. But _gods_ outside of the Revelation? That would be anathema. Raising humanity above such superstitions was the very purpose of the Revelation given to the Prophet. The Dark Court..." A weary glance downwards to the book. "Does not, cannot exist. They are demons, no matter that they seem to be mostly benevolent towards their supplicants."

The man was smart and humble enough. Archeth went straight for the metaphorical throat. "Why then does it sound to me like you're trying to convince yourself on that matter?"

Galat coloured and swallowed, but did not call her out on her directness, nor tried to deny what was nearly an accusation of lack of faith.

"It is... easy," he whispered, "to maintain one's certainties, when one is surrounded by a system dedicated to promoting those certainties. In the Empire, we are taught from birth to disregard the many and various temples erected to these or those so-called gods, and to keep our eyes firmly fixed on the Citadel, and our hearts firmly wedded to the Revelation. But out here in the North..."

He swallowed again, screwed his eyes shut.

"My apologies, my lady! This is not the kind of behaviour you have a right to expect from a Holy Invigilator assigned to serve you as an adviser." He stood up, far too quickly, and bowed rigidly to her. "I think I would do better to review the Revelation than those heathen fairy tales. If you will excuse me."

He didn't wait for her answer. He turned on his heels and nearly ran out of the room - leaving behind both a somewhat baffled Archeth and the book he had been reading.

With a resigned sigh, she grabbed the tome and headed towards her own rooms. She had an afternoon to while away, and she would like to at least try to do so in a more productive way than lost in a krinzanz haze or in thoughts of Ishgrim.

**

Down in Yhelteth, Spring brought with it the first heat of Summer. Up here in Trelayne, it kept Winter languishing in its grasp late into the season. The early afternoon sun was much weaker than Archeth would have liked it.

“At least it’s not raining,” she grumbled as she bundled herself into a blanket on the long chair on the balcony, and proceeded to stare at the book in her lap. The Dark Court... That was another enigma she didn’t know how to handle - not any better than Galat or anyone else, anyway.

Egar still insisted that he had not only talked to one of those beings, but that he had been transported over hundreds of miles by the so-called Salt Lord. Now, Egar had his share of faults; he was a lot of things - but a fanatic believer had never been one of them. If anything, Archeth had heard him rant more than once about the blind faith of his people up in the steppes. That he, of all people, should make such claims now, was more than a little disconcerting.

Archeth shook her head. "Don't fall for it, Archidi," she muttered. "Bet the Dragonbane took a hit too many to the head.” _You, however, should know better._ What would her father think of such inane musings, really? "Demon gods… Yeah, right!"

A small noise slipped out of her bedroom and made her jump out of her chair like some spring-mounted toy.

"Hello? Someone there?" Instinctively, her left hand hovered over Bandgleam as she pushed the drapes out of her way and stepped back inside. Her blood was pumping, and an excitement that had nothing to do with the krin, and was in its own way far more intoxicating and powerful, filled her with heated anticipation.

The battle call. She was only vaguely surprised to realise that she _wanted_ some kind of assassin to attack her - to take her mind off her troubles, give her something to fight besides the feelings of betrayal which piled onto her troubled heart whenever she thought of the meeting with Ringil which awaited her on the next day, like an ambush she could see coming but could neither prevent nor avoid...

She felt both foolish and, quite frankly, disappointed, when a small face looked up at her from the other side of the bed. A young girl, no more than ten, was kneeling on the floor, picking up something she had dropped, and staring up at her with fear in her wide, pale eyes.

"My apologies, milady!" She spoke Naomic, as could be expected from her looks. Most of the serving personnel were locals, many of them slaves. Some courtiers back in Yhelteth tried from time to time to argue that this was a breach of security which should not be allowed, but they always backed down when Jhiral asked, smooth and hard as a polished stone, which of their own personal slaves they were willing to dedicate to this task.

It wasn’t even necessarily the monetary loss which scared them - that could be recouped by prestige gain, among other things. No, it was the risk that, should anything untoward unfold at the Embassy, it might be traced back to the slaves they had personally provided. And such trails were so easy to manufacture, too… Nobody wanted to be at the mercy of some machination engineered by a rival, in a place so far away where they couldn’t control so well what might happen.

The Embassy was thus left to employ locals for most of its non-military or diplomatic tasks. All such servants were supposedly thoroughly reviewed before being hired or bought, especially those who would have access to the rooms of the dignitaries, whether resident or visiting. Seeing the frightened girl staring up at her now, though, Archeth wondered just what that auditing process involved: how exactly did one ensure that a _child_ would not crack under pressure, let alone torture?

Her rational mind caught up with her then. _That’s probably just a daughter filling in while her mother is busy at some other task._ Yes, that had to be the case. Archeth was being paranoid, and far too eager for a fight. She saw threats where simple, average motives sufficed to explain ordinary events.

She let her hand drop away from the knife in its sheath, and forced a smile onto her face, knowing it would likely not be anywhere close enough to offset the chilling effect her burnt-black witch looks and alien eyes always had on people who first met her - especially not servant children caught making a mistake on the job.

“It’s all right.” She tried to pour as much warmth and calm into her voice as she could find in herself, while she answered in slow, careful Naomic. “You just surprised me. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.” She waved her hand vaguely around. “Just… keep doing whatever you were doing.”

She didn’t wait for a reply from the quiet little slip of a girl. Turning around, she stomped back out onto the balcony, and dropped into the chair once more.

She crossed her arms, felt the pout pull at her lips, the sulk brewing in her chest. She barely resisted the urge to kick the low table next to the chair, and to send the book she’d thrown onto it flying. She needed… She needed…

She needed krinzanz.

Or Ishgrim - _no, not Ishgrim, forget about her already._

Egar, then, to argue with, or to spar with, whichever, it didn’t matter. But he wasn’t here, and probably wouldn’t be back for several hours still. She supposed she could go look for Rakan, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to let him fully realise just how much on edge she was.

Well then, krinzanz it was going to have to be?

With a sigh, she stood up again, and carefully headed back inside. Her bed was made, everything neatly cleaned and put away, and the girl was nowhere to be seen anymore.

And…

Archeth slammed to a halt.

Stared at what was lying right in the middle of the bed, gently denting the thick layers, looking almost like a jewel on display against the backdrop of the white, delicately woven Yhelteth coverlet.

Her heart stopped, and then thundered. She would not have usually bet that she could recognise that sword just anywhere - but right here and right now? She had no doubt.

None whatsoever.

It wasn’t a copy, that much she could tell. It was an original. No human had ever managed to reproduce the living glimmer of Kiriath alloys. The pommel and guard were how she remembered them. The scabbard… Her hands trembled as she reached forward, and she had to ball them into fists and take a deep breath. Still, it only brought her a modicum of fake control, fraying at the edges, threatening to pull apart at any moment…

She grasped the scabbard at its bottom with one hand, and pulled on the sword’s grip with the other. The blade - Kiriath steel, unmistakable - came free, almost singing, as the scabbard smoothly fell open and released it.

How long she stood there, staring dumbly at the Ravensfriend - because it _was_ the Ravensfriend, there was no doubt to be had about it - she couldn’t have said.

All she knew was the growing sense of grief, and horror, and despair, which filled her, wave after wave washing over her, threatening to pull her under…

_Oh, Gil… Have we really lost you that completely!?_

***


	9. Egar

Egar was in the mood to kill something when he finally dragged himself back to the Embassy, in the late afternoon.

Running almost head first into Rakan’s boys and the Embassy Security turning the place upside-down looking for _something,_ but being given no explanation as to _what_ exactly, didn’t help in the least. Even when Egar found the Throne Eternal captain himself, Rakan still wouldn’t tell him what was going on, insisting instead that the lady kir-Archeth would want to be the one to explain it.

And then of course, when Egar entered Archeth’s chambers, it was to find them reeking of krinzanz fumes. Awesome.

She was on the balcony, leaning against the rail, staring morosely at the gardens below. Sure enough, there was the stump of a krin roll hanging from her hand. He tried to keep his irritation in check as he asked, “What the fuck is going on here? Rakan is on a hunt for something, but he won’t tell me what.”

She turned her head, watched him calmly - _far_ too calmly - as he came to stand by her side. “A ghost, apparently.”

He gaped at her for a moment. “I… beg your pardon?”

She shrugged, much too casually. “A servant girl left me a present. When I went looking for her, everyone swore up and down that there are no children employed here.” She smiled, thinly, bitterly. “They did a pretty good job of not making it _sound_ like they thought I’d lost my mind, even though that’s exactly how it made me _feel._ ”

Egar frowned, and chose his words carefully. “I haven’t seen any kids around, and, er, I doubt it would be a good idea in an Embassy, you know?”

She had the gall to snort. “See? You’re doing it too. You think that all the krin finally got to me, don’t you? That I’ve finally cracked?”

He hesitated. “… That’s always a possibility, I guess. You’re the one who keeps saying that the Kiriath were never sane to begin with, after all.”

She frowned. “Only the ones who’d passed through the veins of the Earth. That was what broke them. The rest of us were fine.” A pause. “As fine as immortals living among human beings can be, anyway.”

He decided to ignore the acidic barb in her last words. She was visibly upset enough as it was, and he knew she was still grieving the departure of her people, most especially the way they had left her behind. There was no need to push her any further down that over-emotional road, quite the contrary.

“All right. So let’s assume you haven’t gone crazy. Simplest explanation for your ghost is that nobody wants to own up to bringing unauthorised personnel onto the premises.”

She nodded, but her voice was oddly distant when she spoke. “Sounds reasonable enough, doesn’t it?” For some reason, she didn’t seem to believe her own words. If she wasn’t going to extrapolate on her own, though, Egar was not going to force her to - not right now, not while she was in this state.

He chose to wait instead. Wait for her to make a decision, to take the lead, whenever she felt ready for it. Dusk was falling around them, but the band shone silver overhead, bright enough that he could still read Archeth’s dark face, through the interplay of shadows and highlights on her skin.

“What about you? Had a good day?” she eventually asked, with barely enough fake interest to make it sound like she really cared about his answer.

He felt unsure suddenly. He had no choice but to share with her what he had learnt, but he could hardly have imagined worse circumstances in which to do so.

“Right.” He cleared his throat, then set his feet slightly more apart, squared his shoulders, gripped the rail a bit tighter. “Remember that guy whose house Gil is squatting?”

He saw her frown as she pulled on her stores of mental information. “Grace-of-Heaven something?”

That was certainly an easy name to remember. “Milacar, yes,” he confirmed. “Grace-of-Heaven Milacar. Merchant and mobster who likes to think of himself as unfairly dispossessed marsh nobility or something.”

The concept was nothing new, whether in the League or the Empire. There were plenty of coastal noble families, down in Yhelteth, who still resented the take-over by the horse tribes, for example. If Egar’s memory could still be trusted, the old engineer guy, Shanta, belonged to one of them.

“So anyway. Guy started low, though not as low as some others, worked hard and not that honestly at all, and eventually got himself a place in the Glades.” Archeth nodded absently as he spoke; they’d already known that. “Got to know Gil a good fifteen years ago or so, back when our favourite League aristo prick fancied himself some criminal wannabe.” This, they hadn’t quite _known,_ but more or less guessed, both from hints Gil had let drop over the years, and from some ornately recounted information - _“Rumours, I’m sure, my lords and lady, nothing more than rumours, certainly!”_ \- the Embassy spies had reported on.

Egar took a deep, sour breath. “Turns out it wasn’t just business between them, though.”

Now _this,_ Ringil had never alluded to. After all, why and how would he? It wasn’t like anyone had ever _wanted_ him to talk about that aspect of his life - quite the contrary in fact. Of course, in turn, it was something the Embassy spies should absolutely have known about and told Archeth’s team. Why they hadn’t done so, whether it was out of ignorance, distaste, or some weird intention to respect whomever’s privacy, Egar couldn’t guess and didn’t care. All that mattered was that it was important, and so he shouldn’t have been the one to learn about it in this round-about way, dammit!

Sure enough, he saw Archeth blink up at that. “Yeah,” he continued, “that Milacar guy has definite preferences for boys, and from the way he speaks of him, I’d say he’s still pretty taken with Gil after all these years.” It had been plenty, almost obscenely obvious, really, though Egar suspected that Grace-of-Heaven - _what kind of parents give their son such a fucking faggot name anyway!?_ \- had also been deliberately trying to needle Egar just for the dubious fun of it.

This time Archeth frowned. “Wait a minute. Did you _meet_ the guy?”

He nodded. “Yup. That was the lead I told you about. Took me a while to hunt him down.” She opened her mouth; he was faster. “I didn’t go straight to his house or anything! He visits… places. Public places where one can have private meetings, if you see what I mean.” Of course she did. Every city had them, of necessity, including Yhelteth. “Some old guy, you know, the type who knows everything and everyone worth knowing in a place, gave me a short list of addresses, and I finally struck gold today.” He scrunched his nose. “Cost me a bit of money and a whole lot of my dignity, too.”

She snickered. He glowered. “Bitch.”

“Oooh, poor Egar, had to pay with your body, did you?” There was a strain of steely anger under her mocking tone. She was a woman; her status as a Kiriath may protect her from the kind of pressure other women at court, such as Imrana, may face, and the price they too often had to pay with their bodies indeed, but she still _knew_ about it, and she still sometimes ran into the verbal end of it, and so she rightfully despised both the system which allowed it and the men who took advantage of and supported that system.

Men like, well, Egar. He couldn’t completely deny it.

So he just shrugged and pushed on. Unlike Imrana, he hadn’t, after all, been forced to sleep with anybody to get his information. A few remarks and touches on the arms and shoulders were nothing, by comparison. 

“The guy couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted to talk to me or not, at first, but he gave in, eventually.” The alcohol and flandrijn Egar had amply supplied Milacar with had helped, along with the relaxed and falsely intimate setting of the ‘baths’ they had been enjoying. “Told me more than I strictly wanted to know, in fact, but the point is: there’s a couple significant details our friends the Embassy spies either didn’t catch up on, or failed to share with us for whatever reason.”

Archeth’s brows furrowed. Her nose crinkled in preemptive distaste. “Such as?”

“Okay, gotta go back to the beginning, first. According to Milacar, that whole mess started when the dwenda first showed up, three years ago or so.” Archeth mumbled something he didn’t catch. “Erm, what?”

“I said” - each word clearly enunciated this time, and each dripping with sour venom - “that they barely waited for my people to be gone, did they?”

“Uh…” The obvious answer to that was to ask her in return what she expected, but that would have been beyond cruel. Still, it made every sense to him: _of course_ the dwenda would have planned their return as soon as they noticed that the enemies who had once defeated them had left the place. That was what people _did_ , wasn’t it? Take a chance as soon as their opponent turned their back?

“So, ah, anyway…” He shrugged awkwardly, ignored the pointless derailing, and started back again. “When I say ‘the dwenda’, I really mean one of them. Milacar himself never got too deeply involved in the whole business, but he’s firm on that point: there was only one of them all those years, based in Etterkal, and slowly organising a right little cabal with people from all over Trelayne: the slavers of course, but also the Chancellery, the military Academy, the nobility, the Marsh Brotherhood, and so on.”

Her jaw worked and she frowned again. Even bitter as fuck and loaded with krin as she was, she was listening, and she was taking this seriously. “First things first: has Milacar ever seen this dwenda, or is it all just second-hand talk?”

“Oh, he’s met it, all right!” Egar let out a disgusted snicker. “That’s an integral part of the whole story, in fact.”

She turned and inclined her head, looked at him with open curiosity. “Then he was able to tell you what it looks like?”

Egar bit down on the one word that wanted to escape him so badly, the one word Milacar had repeated ad nauseam, and stuck to the generalities instead. “Same as in most of the legends, apparently: human-looking, white skin, pitch-black eyes. Magical powers, obviously, such as appearing out of thin air in a storm of blue fire.”

“It speaks a human language?”

“Naomic, yes. Old and rusty at first, but it got better over time.”

“Old and rusty, huh?… So the legends are right on this as well: the dwenda are truly immortal?”

Egar smiled in bemused reminiscence. “Milacar says that when he asked it this very question, it answered, ‘so far’.”

Archeth snorted softly. “That’s one way to put it, I suppose.” After all, she was, as Egar suddenly remembered with almost painful acuity, in a unique place to appreciate the phrasing.

Grashgal had once explained that, when she was much younger, she had been put through entire batteries of medical tests - anything that the Kiriath or their Helmsmen could think of, more or less, _”as long as it didn’t carry a risk of injuring her, obviously.”_ And yet, despite all this poking and prodding, nobody had been able to come to any definite conclusion as to whether she, the only half-human half-Kiriath hybrid ever to be born, would truly get to enjoy her father’s people’s immortal life span, or whether age would catch up with her eventually, maybe once she’d finally stopped fearing it might do just that.

Egar had wondered, back then, what it must be like to live with such a fundamental uncertainty hanging over one’s head. When he’d made the mistake of mentioning it aloud, however, she’d promptly reminded him that immortality was not the same as invulnerability. _”It won’t matter one bit whether I was meant to be immortal or not, if the Lizards get to me.”_

The Lizards hadn’t managed to kill her in the end, though they’d taken her father, and Naranash, and far too many others. But now the dwenda were reappearing, and if they learnt that their hated enemies had left one single half-breed behind…

Her voice cut through his troubled musings. “Any approximative idea how old this particular one is supposed to be, at least? Are we talking centuries, millennia, dozens of millennia? … More?” She tried to keep her tone light, but there was an unmistakable tension underlying it.

Egar shrugged. “Milacar doesn’t know. Said it wouldn’t tell him.” His voice grew harsher. “One thing is for sure, though: it was around during at least the end of the war against your people, given some of the things it let slip about them.”

That made it at the very least four to five thousands years old. Intellectually, Egar knew that Grashgal, Flaradnam, and so many of the other Kiriath, had been even older than that, but… It just wasn’t the same! The Kiriath had _always_ been around. Egar had grown up with the knowledge of their existence and presence all over the continent. They were just part of the tapestry of the world he lived in. If anything, it was their _absence_ now which felt so terribly wrong.

The dwenda, on the other hand… They were nothing more than legends, and not even part of _his_ people’s legends.

If he were completely honest with himself, it chilled him to the bone, just contemplating the idea of going up against beings so old, so alien, and of which he knew so little. It wouldn’t stop him, of course not, but it did scare him quite a bit.

The line of Archeth’s mouth was grim as she mulled over his words. Eventually, she huffed through her nose, and resumed her questioning. “All right. Was Milacar at least able to tell you what this dwenda wants, exactly? Why it would go to such lengths?”

Egar scratched the stubble on his jaw. “One thing I need to clarify before I answer: some of that info, Milacar got himself straight from that dwenda. Some, he got from other people, such as some old pals of his who are now in the slaving business, and who got involved into the cabal. And some… Well, some of it, he says he got from Gil himself.”

Archeth frowned but didn’t look particularly surprised. “So basically, it could all be a crock of lizard shit in at least three different ways? … Heh.” She flashed him something that was probably supposed to be some kind of cocky grin, but looked more like a pained rictus. “Should be fun trying to disentangle it all!”

Egar said nothing, just waited for her nod before moving on. 

“So, as far as Milacar could see, that dwenda’s goal was to reclaim Ennishmin. Apparently it’s some kind of sacred place to them, which, well, I really can’t fucking imagine why, but there you go. Place is a dead dump, but they want it back, and if they have to ally themselves with humans to get it, they’ll do that.”

“Wait.” Archeth raised a hand. “This doesn’t make any sense. We’ve seen in Khangset what the dwenda can do. Why would they need help from the League?”

Egar shrugged. “Beats me. I did wonder about that as well, but even if I’d been able to mention Khangset to Milacar to try to pressure him on the matter, it would have been useless. He was very insistent that he’s always actively refused to be involved in all those political discussions all along.”

In preparation for the trip to Trelayne, Archeth had taken Egar to see Khangset. She had only told him beforehand that the place had been attacked by something as powerful as dragons, and left him to imagine what that would look like. He’d tried his best.

He’d come up very, _very_ short.

Even several months after the event, and despite the seemingly tireless work which the Imperial civil engineers and their armies of slaves had poured into rebuilding it, the town was still a deeply scarred mess. Egar remembered only too well how his brain had jammed when Archeth had commented on the speed and extant of the repairs; the only way he could see that kind of remarks being justified, was if the place had been left barely more than a ruin in the first place…

The military had done an equally good job keeping the matter quiet. No word of it at all had filtered out to the court, nor anywhere else in the Empire - and nor, apparently, to the League, which was just as important. For example, nobody here at the Embassy had so much as mentioned Khangset: not the diplomats, not the spies, not anyone.

The secret was apparently still safe.

The dwenda themselves seemed to not have reported the incident to their League allies either. Archeth’s tentative explanation was that between the humiliation resulting from what she was certain had to be a massive navigational mistake, and the impossibility of bringing back any proof of what they had accomplished anyway, there was simply no point in disclosing it.

Still, the fact remained: what they had done once, they could do again - properly, this time. So why would they need the help of the League at all?

Archeth continued. She was in her element now, systematically pulling on every thread-ending to neatly expose what looked like a haphazard mess for the carefully woven pattern it actually was.

“That the League would jump at a chance to get their hands back on territory they lost to the Empire, and not even in a proper war but in a diplomatic settlement they only accepted because they literally had no choice anymore, yes, that makes sense. And since I doubt they would care in the least about repopulating Ennishmin with their own people, the dwenda could have it for all they cared, as long as they nominally remained under League leadership, just to spite the Empire. So I see what would be in it for the League: if the dwenda can keep whatever end of the bargain they’ve offered, then the League gets some sweet revenge on the Empire. If they can’t, well, the League can simply pull back at the last minute, sit on their collective arse, and pretend they never did anything, never even _meant_ to do anything in the first place, no really, they swear, and the Empire can’t prove otherwise without claiming the involvement of mythical creatures we’re not even supposed to believe exist anyway. It’s perfect, really… But what’s in it for the dwenda? What could they possibly need from the League in exchange?”

Egar spread his hands, helplessly. He had no more answer to this one than she did. “Milacar doesn’t know. He didn’t _want_ to know, so he never asked, and the dwenda never told him. And…” A wince. “Neither did Ringil. They talked about… other things, those few times he saw him since he came back.”

Archeth sighed and shook her head. “Ah well, we’ll have to bring this up to the others anyway. Maybe Shanta will have an idea.” She dragged a tired hand down her face. “Ringil, then. They didn’t talk politics, I get that, but did Milacar give you any other kind of clue about what’s going on with him?”

“Ugh.” Egar grimaced. “You bet he did.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah… That dwenda…” He hesitated. _Dammit, Dragonbane! Stop squirming like some herd boy visiting the whores with his older brothers for the first time! Just spit it out already._ “All right, look. That dwenda? It put some kind of glamour on Milacar, and ironically enough, Milacar’s damn sure it did the same thing to Ringil.”

Archeth blinked. “… A glamour?”

“Yeah, a glamour. You know, sorcery. Spells and stuff.”

“Hmm… What _kind_ of glamour are we talking about here, exactly?”

“The kind that would make an old, hardened criminal like Milacar, let some creature manipulate him all the way to the band and back, in return for nothing but a bit of… er… attention.”

Now Archeth was openly staring at him. “Egar… Are we… Are we talking about _sex_ here?”

He scowled. “Yes.” He grew agitated when she simply gaped at him. “No, really, you should have heard him, Archidi! _He’s beautiful,_ is what he said! I swear by Urann’s balls, that’s what he kept repeating, over and over again, that that fucking dwenda was _beautiful!_ And you should have seen the look in his eyes, too, and how he said it. It was like he was fifteen and he’d just met his first crush. Creepy as shit, trust me.”

He still felt cold shivers running down his back as he remembered the fevered and forlorn look on Milacar’s face. There had been fond, if lewd, affection in the way he spoke of Ringil - but when he spoke of that dwenda… It was something else entirely.

“Well…” Archeth thankfully sounded thoughtful now. “Everything in the research I’ve carried out since the Khangset attack seems to indicate that the dwenda have always occupied a special place in Naomic mythology. At the least, they are considered supernatural beings. At best, in some tribes, they’ve been worshipped as nearly equal to the gods.”

Egar bristled. Equal to the gods? That was— He blinked, surprised at himself as he always was when he found himself defending the ‘true’ religion against ‘heretical’ attacks. That didn’t square with how he saw himself, and always caught him wrong-footed.

He shook his head to clear it. After all, Archeth had a point, sort of. “I see what you mean, but… With Milacar, it wasn’t religious fervour like anything I’ve seen before. Nothing like the shamans up in the steppes, or like Menkarak and his ilk down in the Empire. It was… personal.”

“Isn’t worship of the Sky Dwellers personal as well?” Archeth sounded unconvinced.

A grimace. “Yeah, but the Sky Dwellers don’t generally _sleep_ with their worshippers, you know?”

“No?” She smirked. “Then how does anybody know about Urann’s twisted cock, exactly? Last I checked, he’s always depicted fully clothed.”

She had him there for a minute. He blinked at her, rather stupidly. “It’s… just an expression, Archidi.”

“You sure?”

… No, on reflection, he wasn’t. He’d never thought of asking himself where the saying came from. It was just an expression kids learnt from their parents, and taught the next generation through casual use. Yet, Archeth was right: the idea had to have come from _somewhere._ And the most logical source was…

“Ugh!” He shook his head again. “All right, fine, you win. Maybe the Sky Dwellers really do sleep with their worshippers sometimes, but if so, I really don’t want to know!”

She gave a short, prim little nod - and then thankfully dragged the conversation back on track. 

“So you’re telling me that according to Milacar, Ringil possibly also got into that kind of relationship with this dwenda?”

“Not possibly. Definitely.” This was one of the rare things Milacar had managed to convey without the shadow of a doubt. “The moment Gil ran into that dwenda, they both disappeared. Weeks later, Gil reappeared alone, laid low, disappeared again. And _then,_ he reappeared once again, still alone, but this time he took the dwenda’s business right back up.”

“On his own?” The Embassy spies’ reports were muddled on that matter: some mentioned the presence of human helpers, some alluded to one or several dwenda accompanying Ringil to meetings, and some said Ringil had been working alone all along.

“At first, yes. Then after a couple weeks or so, he started showing up with another dwenda. Different looks, different name, different everything: Milacar personally only saw it once, but he’s damn sure it’s a different one.”

“Okay…” Slow nod. “Fine. But I can’t help but notice the lack of any mention of sex _or_ sorcery in all of this.”

“Ringil is the one who outright told him about the former. Milacar was kind of missing his fabulous fuck, see, so he asked Ringil, and, well…” Egar shrugged. “Gil just point-blank admitted to him that he was in it for the politics as much as for the personal relationship with that particular dwenda - and yes, he made it damn clear that it included sex, and I see no reason why he would bother to lie about this.”

“To hurt Milacar, maybe? Punish him for not telling him before?” She could hardly have sounded less convinced that she believed a word she was saying.

Egar made a face. Ringil _could_ get nasty sometimes when he was angry, but it was usually a spur-of-the-moment reaction, not a deliberate decision born of a grudge held over time. Moreover, “He couldn’t be that mad at Milacar, if he once again asked for the favour to use his place.”

This was a line of reflection that wasn’t getting them anywhere; Archeth didn’t bother answering. “What about the sorcery bit?” she asked instead.

“Well, first, if I’ve learnt anything these last few months, it’s that where there are dwenda, there’s sorcery. Second, Gil told Milacar that when he was missing, it was because the dwenda took him to those… Grey Places, or whatever they are called, where it lives. And remember, Gil went missing for _weeks_ at a time. Milacar says that the legends teach that humans can’t spend a lot more than a night there without going insane. He says that when he alluded to that in front of Gil, Gil _confirmed_ it, and explained that the dwenda had done things to him to help him survive there. Things to his body, and things to his mind.”

This time, Archeth’s jaw moved as she gritted her teeth. Egar understood how determined she was to believe that Ringil was not as compromised as he seemed to be, but the evidence was simply overwhelming. He could almost see her brain churning at krinzanz-enhanced speed inside her skull, putting all the pieces together, reaching all the various conclusions, dismissing the more improbable ones, turning the more likely ones around to better observe them…

“All right.” Slow, methodical. “So let’s posit that Ringil is sleeping with the enemy. It’s still _Ringil,_ though. From what I understand, it wouldn’t be the first time he used sex to get his way, so who’s to say he’s not the one doing the manipulating here?”

Egar sighed. He’d essentially argued the same thing to Milacar - but it was the _look_ on the man’s face which had convinced him, far more than his words, and he couldn’t well relate a look to Archeth, could he? “Milacar knows full well about that side of Gil, possibly even better than you or me… and he still says he’s never seen Gil like this.”

Egar could even have sworn that there had been jealousy in Milacar’s voice - though whether it was jealousy that he himself should never have managed to place that kind of hold on Ringil, or jealousy that the dwenda should have turned its attention so fully to Gil, or maybe a mix of both and more, Egar couldn’t tell.

“What about some kind of mind tricks then?” Egar only shrugged; Archeth ploughed on. “There’s no need to bring sorcery into this. The appeal of physical beauty, coupled with some pointed psychological manipulation, would be plenty enough. And if there’s anyone I would trust to see through the horseshit of psychological manipulation, while… still…”

Her voice slowed to a halt.

And then, simply, calmly, “Aw, shit.”

“What?” Egar knew her too well; a trickle of panic began to drip in his belly.

“Remember my ghost?”

It took him a second. “The one Rakan’s been turning the Embassy upside-down to find?”

“Yeah. I told you she left me a gift, right?”

“Yes…”

“But I didn’t tell you what that gift was, did I?”

He kept silent this time. He was too busy gathering himself together, waiting for the rug to be pulled from under his feet.

… That didn’t stop his stomach from dropping right through the floor when she took him inside, and unwrapped the long bundle of cloth lying on her bed to show him what was hidden inside.

Ringil not carrying the Ravensfriend, as they’d already known, was one thing. It could have been taken from him, or he could be trying to make a point to someone. Whatever. But Ringil sending the Ravensfriend back to the last remaining member of the people who had gifted it to him?

Forget sleeping with the enemy. Forget arguing the enemy’s side in political negotiations. All those were nothing compared to this.

Egar felt his blood turning to ice in his veins as he stood there and stared at the one, unmistakable, unimaginable-till-today proof of Ringil Eskiath’s betrayal of humanity. _Gil… Gil, fuck… No, not that!_


	10. Egar

Rakan never found Archeth’s servant girl. Nor would anyone admit to letting her in. In fact, nobody even tried to pin the blame for that on anyone else, which was an occurrence so rare indeed that it left Rakan visibly rattled as he reported the situation to Archeth. Archeth, in turn, only smiled pensively and commented, seemingly more to herself than to anyone else, that apparently, the way the Embassy vetted the slaves and servants it recruited was effective enough after all. Egar had no idea what she meant by that, and he didn’t ask.

He was too busy steeling himself for what was to come next.

Archeth had convened an emergency meeting with Rakan, Shanta, and Galat. The four of them and Egar had a quick, summary dinner, and then retreated to their usual conference room. There, Archeth revealed just what exactly the mysterious girl had left behind - and Egar immediately saw the mask of diplomacy settle on the face of the three men. It looked different on each of them, but it conveyed the same instinctive understanding of the significance and gravity of Ringil’s action. They didn’t need Archeth to spell it out for them, even if she did so anyway because doing otherwise would have been cowardly and unworthy of the trust they were putting in her - her experience, her wisdom, her person - in exchange.

And then she moved on to Egar’s information, and the men’s silence turned outright stony.

Captain Rakan had never made any secret of how little he thought of Ringil Eskiath, degenerate and corrupter of youth. Egar had been _incensed_ to discover that this was about as much as the Imperial military was told about Gil. Nothing about his participation in the war against the Scaled Folk, nothing about Rajal beach, nothing about how the Kiriath considered him a friend and held him in high esteem - and certainly nothing about how he was the one who had led the charge at Gallows Gap. No, to the Imperials, Ringil Eskiath was nothing more than a faggot who had tagged along and likely hidden behind the Kiriath when the Lizards had attacked, and who had been thrown out of the Imperial military in disgrace after the war.

Archeth had corrected - her voice almost dangerously calm - every single one of these misconceptions, several times when necessary, but it was plenty clear that Rakan _still_ didn’t quite believe her. This in turn made Egar’s stomach churn with acidic rage every time he thought about it.

And now this.

Any trace of goodwill Rakan may have been willing to extend towards Gil was being cleanly, hopelessly burnt away with each word Archeth spoke.

_Nothing to be done about it anymore._

Shanta’s face was carefully closed off as he listened to Archeth, but his gaze kept flicking to Rakan, sitting rigid as a tree next to him. The old man was trapped between opposite allegiances: he didn’t want to force Archeth to denounce Ringil, but if Rakan spoke up to do so, then neither could he afford to oppose the Throne Eternal.

As for Galat, the rising unspoken conflict seemed to be making him outright sick. He was pale, and looked feverish.

Egar pressed his lips. _Gonna need a miracle this time, Dragonbane. Archidi’s good, but even she won’t be able to get the two of you out of breaking your promises, or declaring Ringil an enemy of the Empire, before the night is over._

He felt the helpless anger, shot through with bitter betrayal, rise again in his chest - the same one which had pounded through his veins after Archeth had stored the Ravensfriend away again, back in her rooms. _Shit, Gil, why did you have to go and antagonise them before they even had a chance to meet you!? What the fuck were you thinking??_

Abruptly, he realised Archeth had stopped talking. She was done with recounting the day’s events, and she was now staring at her hands, folded together, fingers entwined, on the table.

Shanta kept silent. Galat kept silent. Quick glances confirmed to Egar that they too were keeping their gazes firmly averted from everyone else.

They were all waiting for Rakan.

Eventually, the Throne Eternal captain spoke up, slowly, calmly. “My lady… At this point, what concerns me most urgently is your safety.”

Made sense, Egar mused, especially in the light of another one of Milacar’s revelations which Archeth had relayed to them. _”The first time Gil invited himself to my place, he kept my servants around. But this time, the first thing he did was ask me to empty the house entirely. And then he filled it with his own people. Don’t ask me where he found them: nobody saw them arrive, and I’d never seen any of them before.”_

They were human, but there was no doubt that there was sorcery afoot anyway. Egar knew that if he weren’t so unfailingly - _some might say stupidly, Dragonbane_ \- convinced that Ringil would never hurt Archeth, no matter what, then his role as her bodyguard would demand that he too rail against the mere idea that she should ever set foot in that house.

Archeth nodded. “I understand. Unfortunately, we don’t have a choice.” She raised a hand to stop Rakan’s incoming protest. “Moreover, let’s be realistic: if Ringil simply meant to get rid of me, I don’t think he would have bothered to give us four days to prepare.” Rakan closed his mouth; his eyebrows furrowed even tighter. “After all, today’s intrusion more than amply proves that Ringil has the means to reach me anywhere he chooses.”

 _’Even in the heart of the Embassy’_ was left unsaid, but it hung heavily in the air between Archeth and the Throne Eternal.

Rakan made a face that might have been meant to indicate some kind of assent, and moved on. “Speaking of means: maybe he, or his… associates” - he spat the word out almost delicately - “were the ones who needed these four days? Maybe to prepare a way to place you personally, or all of us together, under the same kind of glamour that was supposedly set over him and this Milacar?”

Now _this_ was indeed a real risk; in the face of magic, they were all ridiculously vulnerable.

Never mind that down in the Empire, such talk would have been nearly blasphemous. Maybe even up here in Trelayne, if they had been accompanied by one of the more hard-line, fanatical Invigilators the Citadel seemed to be churning out these days, they might still have been harshly berated for even thinking, let alone saying, that faithful servants of the Revelation could ever fall prey to demonic influence while under the protection of a Holy Invigilator.

But - another quick glance to Galat - Hanesh Galat was not that type. Hanesh Galat was faithful, yes, and still quite naive, but he was also honest and brave enough to stare the facts in the eyes, and to admit when he was out of his depth. And right now, if the trembling in his hand as he dragged his sleeve across his forehead was any indication, he was indeed perfectly aware that the danger was real, and that there was nothing he could do to protect any of them against it.

Simply said, if they went to Milacar’s place to meet Ringil, there was no telling if they would all come back with their minds un-tampered with.

Archeth shrugged, a little too nonchalantly. “There seems to be a sexual component to this particular glamour. This should keep all of us quite safe…” She raised her Kiriath gaze, sent it drilling into Rakan’s. “Wouldn’t you think so, captain?”

Egar hid his shock behind a hand scratching his stubble. The krinzanz Archeth had chewed on before they’d left her quarters was encouraging her down daring paths indeed. Not only was she claiming a small revenge for herself, by turning what too many saw as weakness and a moral fault in her character into an unexpected strength, but she was outright challenging Rakan’s morality in turn, and by extension Shanta’s and Galat’s as well. If they were really as uninterested in male company as they claimed, then they had nothing to fear, did they?

Of course, there was a fault in her reasoning, as Egar had no doubt she’d been aware of. “Our enemies would know about this, milady.” The Throne Eternal sounded thoroughly impassive; Egar had to admire his self-control, even if he’d already known about the extensive training all Throne Eternals received. “Maybe they used these four days to prepare an alternate type of glamour?”

“Perhaps,” Archeth admitted lightly. “Maybe. But what choice do we really have? We can’t hide here forever on the basis of _possible_ threats.”

They hadn’t been hiding. She was unfairly needling Rakan now - and probably pointlessly so, too. Such a taunt might have worked on a Majak like Egar, but not on a Throne Eternal; she had to know that.

Shanta must have known it as well. His voice was unnaturally soft when he interjected, “One way or another, we will have to talk to _someone,_ and the risk of magical interference will always hang over our heads. Better to keep that threat out of the Embassy, I would say, and to start our negotiations with a somewhat-known quantity.”

Considering the afternoon’s events, _‘keeping the threat out of the Embassy’_ was not a given even if they agreed to meet at Milacar’s house, or anywhere else really, but it was still better than outright inviting the enemy within the place.

Which, Egar remembered with a jolt, was exactly what had been their original intention.

He blinked.

Coincidence, or…?

He briefly shook his head. There was no telling. There was no telling _anything_ at this point, and this thought sent another uneasy chill creeping along his tightening nerves, even as they prepared for a battle he knew next to nothing about, except that it was almost upon them - and that for the first time ever, he and Ringil might not be on the same side of it.

It wasn’t the first time Egar would fight against a former ally. The Majak hired as mercenaries, or outright joined the military, both in the League and the Empire, so it wasn’t uncommon for them to meet as enemies on a battlefield. Coin was coin, and that was a risk you knew you were taking the minute you accepted that coin.

But…

This time, it wasn’t about coin.

And Ringil was no Majak.

_Shit, Gil… Don’t do that. Please don’t force us into that!_

 

_**_

 

“Place feels like a fucking tomb,” Egar grumbled. Considering the utter lack of reaction from any of the others, he felt safe assuming that at the very least, they didn’t disagree.

The villa on Replete Cargo Street was decent enough, clean and airy and surrounded by well-maintained gardens. The afternoon sun flowed in through the windows, but this being Trelayne and not Yhelteth, it didn’t really do much to dispel the gloom inside. What would have worked much better would have been lit lamps, or at least a few fires in the chimneys, but there were none of these in the rooms they were being led by.

It didn’t help that the place felt utterly devoid of _life._ The personnel was sparse to begin with, and the way they acted… It wasn’t disrespectful, just incredibly remote, and not in the usual servile way Egar had grown accustomed to in places such as the Embassy. That the guards who had opened the garden gate for the Imperial carriage should have remained entirely silent, that was one thing. Same for the other guards who had met Archeth’s party in the central court, and accompanied them to the door.

But there was also the butler who had greeted them in the entrance room of the villa itself - if you could call it ‘greeting’: giving them a perfunctory bow while mechanically saying, “Welcome, my lady and lords,” made for some very poor greeting indeed, even in Egar’s unrefined opinion. Egar almost snorted as he imagined how scandalised Kefanin would have been at such a horrifying lack of proper etiquette…

That same butler was now guiding them through the house. He hadn’t asked for their names, hadn’t taken their coats, hadn’t checked their weapons, had not even enquired about the very visible package Archeth was carrying in her arms. He had only said, “This way, please,” before taking off, apparently with no care as to whether all his master’s guests were following him or not.

After the series of dark, empty corridors, the room they finally emerged into was almost violently bright. There were - finally - plenty of lit lamps here, and a fire crackling in the hearth. The place was big enough to contain two tables: a long, rectangular one under the windows, and a smaller, round one next to the fireplace. Both were laden, though in very different ways.

On the long table were piles of documents, and maps spread out and held flat with various items. Central among them, far too easily identifiable after Archeth’s team had spent so much time poring over it, was a map of Ennishmin. There were also pieces of parchments covered in scribbled notes, plans of action corrected and expanded upon, lists with items checked off or struck through, summaries, reminders… Egar had seen enough of them to recognise a war table when he saw one, and he was not surprised to feel the tension in the little group rise up yet another notch.

Ringil had had them taken straight to his office; he wasn’t even trying to hide or deny his intentions. Coming from anyone else, Egar would have considered such a blatant move a subtle opening of hostilities, and he had no doubt that this was exactly how Rakan must see it.

By contrast, the round table was almost a picture of hospitality. It had been set for six people - _Just the one of you against the five of us, then, Gil? Unless you have some invisible friends somewhere, of course…_ Egar shut that line of thought down before it meandered into truly uncomfortable territory, and forced himself to take a good look at the table instead. The cutlery gleamed silver; the plates and the glasses were simple in design, but they were also unmistakably made of fine porcelain and crystal. The assortment gave off a feeling of wealth but not luxury, which fit just right with the rest of the house.

The butler invited them to take seats with a gesture, before disappearing through a side-door. Egar saw Galat and Shanta exchange wary glances. Rakan and Egar were necessarily going to sit on either side of Archeth, to protect her, at least nominally. Ringil, obviously, needed to be seated opposite her, which left the engineer and the Invigilator, in turn, to sit on either side of him - an arrangement they clearly didn’t relish. Egar refrained from pointing out that should things go wrong, just how close to Ringil anyone originally was would not matter in the slightest anyway.

Archeth slowly circled the table, before finally standing behind a chair. “Gentlemen,” she said mildly, “take your seats.” While they did - Rakan to her right with Shanta on his other side, Egar to her left with Galat next to him - she once again rounded the table, to the place she had de facto chosen for their host, _whenever you decide to show up, Gil._ There, she carefully laid the long, leather-wrapped package she had been carrying, across the arms of the chair.

Next to him, Egar clearly heard Galat swallow. _You would too, Dragonbane, if you were more or less defenceless, and someone handed your table neighbour a fucking sword._ Archeth, Rakan and Egar himself still had all their weapons, but if Ringil decided to turn on his guests after all, both Shanta and Galat would likely be dead before any of the other three even had time to interfere.

Egar shook his head. _It’s not gonna come to that. It’s not!_ He had to believe this. Had to believe that Gil had not, _would not,_ lower himself to such thuggish methods - and would not renege on his friendship with Archeth and Egar so easily.

They all missed Ringil’s arrival, hidden as he was behind the butler, who had come back holding a large plate laden with small cakes and pieces of fruit in his hands. Even Rakan, trained and experienced Throne Eternal that he was, could not stop the small jump of his hand towards the sword at his side, when the butler retreated after setting the plate down in the middle of the table - and suddenly, there was Ringil, standing tall and silent in his place.

“Fuck!” Archeth didn’t even _try_ to hide her irritation as she settled back into her seat, after she’d almost jumped out of it in alarm. “Ringil, what do you _think_ you’re doing!?”

From the corner of his eye, Egar saw Shanta raise an eyebrow, but that was as much commentary as anyone bothered making. _Well, so much for at least pretending to engage in proper diplomacy, I suppose,_ Egar mused to himself. The idea of even trying to have that kind of discussion with Ringil, of all people, had always seemed silly to him anyway.

Ringil bowed. “Did you truly expect any better from me, my lady kir-Archeth?”

 _Oho!_ The amusement in Gil’s voice was clear for anyone to hear, but this was a dangerous game to play around people who didn’t know him. Egar and Archeth would know he meant no true insult, but if Rakan missed that nuance…

There was a moment of floating, as Archeth stared incredulously up at Ringil. On the other side of her, Rakan’s gaze kept flicking from her to Ringil, and his hand was still hovering over the pommel of his sword at his side.

Then Archeth flopped against the back of her chair and let out a rather theatrical sigh. “Yes, actually, _my lord_ Ringil.” The annoyance in her voice was biting, though Egar could still detect just the merest edge of exasperated affection behind it. “I expected you to at least _try_ to behave yourself for, oh, five minutes maybe?” Ringil shook his head, an amused smile on his lips, and Archeth waved a dismissive hand and muttered, “Should have known that was too much to hope for, really.” 

Egar heard Galat cough discreetly in his sleeve, and forced himself not to grin. After so many hours of preparation over the last few days, after they had spent almost all of last night discussing possibilities and alternatives, they were already down to that simplest of baselines, the one Egar had spelt out with tired peevishness, between two deep yawns, just a few hours ago.

_”Look, this is Ringil we’re talking about. Being unpredictable was kind of his thing back when I knew him. That’s how we took that dragon down together in Demlarashan. That’s how he snatched us that miraculous victory in Gallows Gap. By being unpredictable, and not going for the conventional solutions. Now, that little stunt of his with the Ravensfriend? This tells me he hasn’t changed a lot in that respect. So I say we let the one person who knows best how to deal with him - that would be our lady Archeth here - do just that, and we follow her lead wherever it goes. What do you think?”_

Truth be told, Egar knew that Ringil could run circles even around Archeth if he tried hard enough, but the point was: the others didn’t know that. And they’d all been just as tired as he was, so they’d agreed to his suggestion, albeit some more reluctantly than others, and they’d finally accepted to call it a night, and to go grab a few hours of much-needed sleep.

And sure enough, now here they were already, holding on to their seats while watching Archeth try to keep some semblance of control on a situation that was growing more unpredictable indeed by the minute.

_Still up to your old tricks, heh, Gil?_

It was working, too, as it always did. In one simple move, Ringil had firmly established Archeth as his main partner in the discussion to come, quietly sidelining both Rakan and Galat, never mind that they represented, respectively, the military power of the Empire and the ecclesiastical authority of the Citadel. Such a manoeuvre would not have worked with more hot-headed or ambitious men, but Gil would most likely have counted on Archeth not wanting to be burdened with such men in the first place - and he’d been right, of course.

Still, fear gnawed at Egar’s insides. _We both know Archidi will forgive you a hell of a lot, Gil. But if you’re really intent on threatening the future of humanity, or even just the integrity of the Empire… She won’t let it go. You know that, don’t you? It doesn’t matter how much of your old charm you pour all over her. She won’t let something like that go!_

If Ringil was banking on his friendship with Archeth to have his way in this meeting, then he was going to be severely disappointed. And then, who knew how he would react? _What will you do if she doesn’t give you what you want, Gil? Is this why you let us keep our weapons? So you could finish this in the manner you always do when you don’t get your way?_ If he tried, it would be three-on-one, provided there weren’t any guards hidden close-by. In theory, that should be more than enough. In practice, though…

In practice…

If it came to that, if it came to an actual, steel-to-steel fight…

Never mind that Ringil didn’t _seem_ to be carrying any sword. Never mind that Rakan was a fucking Throne Eternal captain, and that Egar was a damn Dragonbane, and that Archeth had almost two centuries of training behind her. Never mind that the room, as large as it was, was still too cramped to favour Gil’s usual fighting style.

Never mind any of that.

If it came to a fight against a Ringil Eskiath who seemed quietly confident enough to defy direct representatives of the Emperor even while apparently admitting to betraying humanity to dangerous enemies with powerful magical abilities, then Egar wasn’t sure they would manage to take him down after all.

Especially not - and _now,_ too late, far too late, Egar wondered if Archeth had not made a terrible mistake after all - if they lost their one main, huge edge, by handing Gil back his--

Right then, Ringil pulled his seat, and noticed what was waiting for him there. The smile slid off his face, replaced with a frown. “A present for me, milady? I’m afraid I did not expect this. I have nothing to offer in return.”

Archeth’s mouth bent in a bitter smile. “You might want to open it first.” Her voice was artificially airy, and the nonchalant way in which she reached for a small cake on the platter was clearly manufactured. Egar saw Ringil’s lips press together in response.

The butler was back again, silent as ever, holding a large jug of fragrant tea in one hand, and a smaller tray of the usual assortment of milk, cream, and honey pots in the other. He set the tray down, and proceeded to serve everyone, beginning with Archeth. Nobody paid him any attention; all eyes were on Ringil when he finally did as he’d been told and started to unwrap Archeth’s ‘present’.

Egar wondered if anyone who didn’t know him well would notice the tension in his moves…

Only a deaf person, though, could have missed the catch in his breath when he reached the final layers and seemingly guessed what he was about to see, or the trembling in his fingers as he pulled the last linen flaps apart, and revealed the Ravensfriend, nestled in its scabbard and gleaming coolly in the bright light of the fire and the lanterns.

He didn’t touch it. In fact, he seemed to be very careful to keep his hands as far away from it as he could while he finished unpacking it, and he quickly relocated those same hands to the back of his chair as soon as he was done.

But by the gods, did he _look_ at it!

There were too many emotions rushing across his face for Egar to catch them all, but one dominated, no matter that he clearly tried to push it down.

It screamed from the tightness of his jaw, from the swift occasional trembling in the thin line of his mouth. From the distressed angle of his furrowed brows. And from the taut lines around his suddenly brighter, more intense gaze.

It was the look on a father’s face when Egar brought back the broken body of a son. The look on a husband’s face when the shaman announced that there was nothing more to be done to save his wife.

It was the look on Archeth’s face after the last of the fireships had disappeared into the lava at An-Monal.

And paradoxically, that look, that terrible look to behold, sent _hope_ bubbling in Egar’s guts, inexorably filling him no matter how much he didn’t want to succumb to it, not quite, not just yet!

But he couldn’t resist. He couldn’t _help_ hoping - because if Ringil could still look at the Ravensfriend with so much fucking _grief_ in his eyes, then he couldn’t be as lost to humanity, lost to Archeth and to Egar, as they had feared after all.

Their friend was still in there somewhere, and they just needed to find a way to pull him out.

***


	11. Ringil

A whole night of stone-cold, dreamless sleep helps, which is good because the next day is only more of the same waking nightmare. The food still sucks. Ringil still feels like some great lumbering beast in the middle of the five dwenda and his marsh-dweller-blooded cousin. His thoughts won’t stop running into all kinds of overwhelming directions. And Seethlaw might as well have retreated to the Grey Places already, for all the attention he’s giving any of his companions.

Ringil bites the inside of his cheek, and forces himself to bide his time. First get Sherin home, and then… Then he’ll see.

They reach Pranderghal as night falls, just in time to have dinner at the Swamp-Dog inn. Even though Ringil prepared himself for it, it’s still a shock to find himself here again. He can’t help the memories lurking at the edges of his mind, waiting to pounce on him; it’s all he can do to keep them at bay, just barely, to stop himself from drowning in them. That doesn’t prevent the ache and the grief laced all over them from seeping into his soul.

It had been a few weeks after the battle of Ibiksinri, but it had still felt so raw, almost bleeding still. His physical scars had been on the mend, but the ones inside him… He remembers telling Archeth about Sherin’s nightmares, but he hadn’t told her about his own. They didn’t wake him up screaming - not on the outside anyway. Still, they were why he had so eagerly accepted Sherin’s request for revenge: because killing anyone associated with her ordeal meant killing anyone associated with Seethlaw’s business in Trelayne, and with each figure that fell, he—

He what, really?

At the time, he had thought he was cutting one more link of the chain joining him to the memory of Seethlaw. It was supposed to set him free. The more he killed, the freer he was supposed to become. But that… It hadn’t worked that way, had it?

Still, that was the best he had known how to do at the time. Kill, destroy, sever… And it would even have worked, if all he had really wanted all along was the destruction of the Aldrain. Except, as it turned out, it wasn’t. He had _thought_ it was, because surely, once those bastards were all dead, his heart would stop bleeding, right?

He represses a snort as he realises that he made the exact same mistake as Risgillen did: they both dedicated themselves to vengeance, to obtaining some kind of revenge over whoever they thought was their enemy, in hopes of healing the gaping hole in their heart.

They both ran away from the truth of their fraying, unravelling soul, and took illusory refuge in a fantasy where removing ever more people from an already too-empty world could somehow fill the bottomless chasm inside them, and make it stop hurting, stop hurting _so fucking much_ that they couldn’t even take a moment and look at it - truly _look_ at it - and identify the grief behind it for what it was, because surely nobody could face such hopelessness and pain, and still live.

 _Bit of a hypocrite, heh, Gil?_ He called Risgillen so many names. Her co-conspirators too, even the whole Aldrain people. He insulted them, mocked them, derided them, for putting their hope in some dream of revenge and reconquest. And yet, in the end… That was exactly what he’d done himself as well, wasn’t it?

Kill a few more criminals. Free a few more slaves. Unravel another nefarious plan. Break off a couple more ill-bred alliances. And of course, learn just a little bit more about the _ikinri ‘ska_.

Just a little more. Just a few more. Just…

The truth was, he was never going to reach a point where he would have been satisfied, because he was on the wrong path for that all along. The further he went, the larger the tear in the fabric of his soul ripped apart.

But he only knew running; he only knew fighting. And so he’d run, until he’d had nowhere left to go, all alone in a dead world severed from the rest of the universe by his own decision.

And still he’d fought, until he’d killed everyone who stood in his way. Only to discover, at the last minute, when he finally, _finally_ had to just fucking lie down and _think_ because there was literally nothing else he could do anymore - discover that it had all been for nothing, and it had never been what he wanted in the first place anyway. 

_There’s a time for deciding on strategy, and there’s a time for applying that strategy._ How often has he heard or said something along those lines? How often has he taught and practised that one should feel confident enough in applying a strategy during the heat of a battle seemingly going wrong, as long as that strategy was thoroughly discussed and carefully elaborated before the battle even began?

And yet, when it came to his own life, he never could put that principle into action. From the day he was born, he drifted. He drifted from the Glades to Cargo Street, from Cargo Street to the Academy, from the Academy to the Empire, then to the war, on to Gallows Gap, then back to Trelayne, and on to Ennishmin with the Imperial army, until finally, in a fit of suicidal tactics, he lost control of it all for good, and washed out in Gallows Waters - all because there was never any strategy to his life, any goal, any guiding line.

There was no strategic thinking to fall back on to orient his reactions when Seethlaw and the Aldrain burst into his life. And there was definitely no strategy of any kind guiding him after that when again and again, he allowed tactics chosen on the spur of the moment to upturn his life, and all he knew how to do in response to anything happening to him or around him, was slash down or magic away everything and everyone that looked like it might deserve it.

No strategy, ever, because…

His heart thuds in his chest, and his hands around his mug of beer tremble as, for the very first time since he was born, he can face the one thing he spent his entire life running away from.

He can accept it now, that gut-wrenching reason why he could never get a proper footing in his own existence, why he could never do more than drift and react to events as they happened to him, instead of reaching for a purpose of his own.

It’s so simple, really…

Slimy little faggots like him don’t _deserve_ a life, do they?

If he couldn’t be what his father, and his mother, his brothers, his society, the military, even some of his closest friends, wanted him to be at that most basic level, then he had no right to make his own choices, his own decisions, in any other matters, did he?

All his life… All his life he spent disappointing everyone around him because of that one deviance. Keeping the dirty secret of it. Mixing with the wrong crowds. Getting innocents killed - _Jelim…_ All because he couldn’t correct that one defect in his character, and make proper life plans like a proper person.

It was always as simple as that, and he can finally accept to see it now.

He can accept to see it because for the first time ever, he’s not faced with nothing but utter, icy, pitch-black emptiness, nothingness, a blank, hollow void, as he wonders just _what_ would be left of him, or even _whether_ anything would remain of him at all, if he rejected such a fundamental part of himself.

He can face it now… Because now there’s someone there, between him and that emptiness, telling him that they want him just as he is, and offering him everything they have in exchange for nothing but what he is, what he’s _always been._

… And so _now_ he can make plans.

Now he can strategise. Now he can think before acting - and then feel confident that the ground won’t crumble under his feet when he follows through on his carefully decided path, in that way he has only ever felt on a battlefield, but never in his private life.

Now he can look up, across the table, at Seethlaw who hasn’t eaten anything all day and is not even pretending like he intends to touch the bowl of undefined stew sitting under his nose - and feel an all too familiar type of trepidation rising in his belly.

The call for battle.

The same type of battle he engaged in back then after he left this very place, and desperately lashed out in uncoordinated, and thus ultimately futile, attempts to change the world - except that this time, he won’t just run into any fight he can find and hope that this one will somehow bring him closer to goals he cannot even properly formulate.

No, this time he’s going to sit down, and he’s going to _think_ about how to obtain what he wants - how to grant Seethlaw his heart’s desire, while protecting humanity from the harsh, cold, revengeful spite of the returning Vanishing Folk.

And then only _after_ he’s put together a working strategy, will he take the first steps - confidently, trusting that he can truly change the face of the world for the better this time, one careful, properly planned move at a time.

**


	12. Ringil

Another inn room, another dreamless night, and then it’s morning, cold and wet and grey. Pelmarag is missing during breakfast; Ashgrin only says, “Horses”, and Ringil nods.

But then they leave the inn, and Pelmarag is waiting there besides _two_ horses, and Ringil feels the world tilting under his feet. It’s too early, and his nerves are too tight. He wasn’t planning on this; he’s not fucking _ready._

“Only two!?” His voice snaps; he didn’t mean it, but he can’t help it.

Pelmarag frowns at him. He seems confused. “It’s easy from here. Just follow the road.” He vaguely gestures towards the west.

That doesn’t explain anything. “So, what? You’re just letting us go on our own, just like that!?”

Pelmarag tilts his head. “Letting you go?” His lips twitch in amusement. “You’re not prisoners, you know.”

Ringil scowls and points to Sherin. “ _She_ was, as far as I can remember!”

Pelmarag shrugs. “She’s not anymore, and _you_ never were.”

He hands the reins of one horse to Sherin, and there it is again on her face, that look of wonder Ringil remembers. It was Archeth last time, and it was a far superior horse - an Imperial levy horse, nothing less - but a horse is a horse, and Sherin loves horses. As soon as Pelmarag steps out of her way, her hands reach up to the horse’s neck, petting and holding and caressing… The horse likes her, too, and soon she has her face in its mane, and she’s whispering sweet nothings to it.

That’s good. That’s very good. But—

“There’s food in the saddle bags,” Pelmarag’s voice interrupts. “It looks better than what we got last time.” He sounds somewhat apologetic, and Ringil feels a hysterical laughter bubbling deep in his belly. Yes, the quality of the fucking _food_ is his main problem here!

He turns to face Pelmarag and states, flatly, “I need to talk to Seethlaw.”

He sees the alarm on the dwenda’s face. “I…” Pelmarag looks away, shifts his stance. “I don’t think that’s a good ide—”

“I don’t care.”

He doesn’t, and since he’s not a prisoner, he doesn’t need anybody’s permission either, right? Unless, of course, they are willing to admit that _Seethlaw_ is a prisoner, but somehow he doubts that. So he just turns on his heels, ignoring the way Pelmarag calls after him, and heads straight back to the entrance of the inn, where Seethlaw is sitting on the stairs, staring at his hands gathered in a cup in his lap, as Ringil has seen him do far too often lately.

He barely slows down as he bends, wraps a hand around an upper arm, and _pulls._ Sure enough, he hears the gasp of surprise, and he feels the initial loss of balance as Seethlaw is forced to scramble to his feet while being dragged backwards - but he’s an Aldrain, and within a few seconds, he’s standing, and facing the right way, and Ringil can let him go with only a short, “Follow me.”

Inside the inn, Ringil asks for “a private place to have a quiet conversation,” in that tone of voice which doesn’t tolerate pointless opposition. He was born and raised in the Glades of Trelayne, and he’s a former military commander, and sometimes he doesn’t mind putting the weight he’s learnt from those backgrounds into a request.

They are ushered into a small room that can apparently serve as both an office and a bedroom, if the desk along one wall and the bed along the other are any indication.

All that time, Seethlaw has quietly followed him, and Ringil hasn’t thrown so much as a glance towards him. He knows he won’t like what he sees when he finally turns around after locking the door behind them…

He’s therefore rather pleasantly surprised when he’s greeted by a pair of empty eyes staring straight at him. There’s anger in the way the brow is furrowed and the jaw is set, but he can deal with anger. Even the way the long hands are twitching where they hang - through obvious willpower - in a falsely relaxed fashion on each side of the narrow hips, bothers Ringil much less than the defencive self-hug he’s grown far too accustomed to over the last couple of days.

He steps right up to Seethlaw and grabs a fistful of his shirt. Once again, he can feel the effort Seethlaw consciously makes not to step back. Good.

“All right, you,” he starts in a whisper. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

He expected surprise. The redoubling of anger he gets instead is not quite welcome.

“What more do you wish from me?” Seethlaw hisses. “I granted you what you were seeking, didn’t I? I kept my promise. Your cousin goes free. Is that not enough still?”

Ringil stares, at a momentary loss. Has Seethlaw already forgotten that, “ _You_ are the one who brought me into this! _You_ are the one who expected” — Ringil gestures with his free hand -- “I don’t even know _what_ from me!”

Seethlaw turns his head like Ringil’s slapped him. Ringil remembers him reacting in that exact same way, back in Ennishmin, and how everything went wrong from there…

Sure enough, it’s with the same flat tone he used back then that Seethlaw answers once again. “I misjudged the situation. I saw the signs; they are clear to read for anyone who knows how. But I misinterpreted them. You are not what I thought I saw in you, and I tried to place a mantle on your shoulders that was never yours to carry in the first place. I—” He swallows. He’s still not looking at Ringil. “I apologise for that, and wish you the best in the rest of your endeavours.”

Ringil stares. And then, the words stumble out of him, incredulous, bewildered - hurt.

“Are you… Are you saying you _made a mistake!?_ ”

Seethlaw opens his mouth. Something shifts in his face. “I… Yes. A partial one, but a crucial one. Yes.”

 _No! No, you didn’t! You were right, dammit!_ Ringil’s mind is screaming, but he can’t say the words, can’t say them, ever, because he can never explain where they come from. So instead, he shakes Seethlaw, once, and tries to keep some kind of control on his voice as he asks, “So, what? You’re just sending me home, just like that? And we’re gonna pretend nothing happened?”

Seethlaw swallows again, but there still seems to be something lodged in his throat when he replies, “That would be ideal.”

… It hurts. It fucking hurts! _I came back from death for you, you arsehole! You can’t just throw me away like that!_

But then… Ringil shakes his head. No, this doesn’t make sense. “What about your business in Ennishmin?”

Ringil instantly knows he’s found the fault in Seethlaw’s neat little plan. The dwenda’s breath speeds up, and a muscle jumps in his jaw. And most tellingly of all, he _doesn’t answer._ He’s stubbornly staring at whatever he can see over Ringil’s shoulder, and he’s not answering, and Ringil can feel the tension coiling in his body tighter than ever.

“You know I won’t let you keep at it, right?” Ringil pushes his advantage. He leans into the hold he has on Seethlaw, and his next whispered words land straight into the dwenda’s ear. “I am _not_ letting you start another war between the League and the Empire. This is _not_ happening. You know that.” He doesn’t even bother couching it as a question this time.

And Seethlaw crumbles.

Oh, it almost doesn’t show, and Ringil might have missed it if he hadn’t been looking so very closely. But he _was_ looking, and he sees it in the way the dark eyes close. He hears it in the soft hitch in Seethlaw’s breath, and then the quiet sigh that follows it. He feels it in the twitch that runs through Seethlaw’s body, and in the way it seems just a little heavier in Ringil’s hold for a moment.

Even if he had missed all of this, though, Ringil would have inevitably heard the admission of defeat in the whispered question that escapes the white lips. “What would you have me do?”

 _Listen to me, you idiot! There are other ways to go about this!_ But there’s no time right now for this. No time to go over all the alternatives, and the details. So Ringil settles for the main, most important parts. He lets go of Seethlaw’s shirt, but wraps his hands around his upper arms instead. “Two things. One, you come and find me back in Trelayne. I take Sherin home, and then you _come and find me!_ ” He gives a little shake to the arms held tight in his hands, to underline the seriousness of his request.

Seethlaw doesn’t protest, just swallows again and nods, once. He’s still not looking at Ringil, but he’s listening and that’s better than whatever he’s been doing the last two days.

“All right. And two: you don’t go forward with that plan of yours until we’ve seen each other.” No shake this time, just a stronger press of his fingers around the lean arms.

Seethlaw nods again. “Obviously.” His tone is still far too flat, too defeated, and even when his eyes open, his gaze settles on Ringil’s shoulder instead of his face, and—

And something snaps in Ringil. He wants Seethlaw back - _his_ Seethlaw, the one who ordered him around, and smiled when Ringil said something stupid, or frowned with disappointment when Ringil disagreed with him.

And at this point, he knows of only one way left to reach out to that Seethlaw. His hands move on their own, one wrapping all the way around Seethlaw’s neck to keep him in place, the other cupping his jaw to pull his face into position - and then Ringil’s lips are sweeping in. And gods, the touch of all that cool skin under his fingers and mouth, of that soft stubble against his chin, and Seethlaw’s _taste,_ musk and spices…

Ringil feels himself falling, the intensity of the moment enhanced by memories of all those times he denied himself the smallest window into this past, refused to remember, fought back the _longing,_ because with it always came the pain of the realisation of what he had held and lost, of what he had betrayed and destroyed - of _what might have been!_

But now, what might have been, _is_ once again, and Ringil’s soul rejoices.

Seethlaw’s body goes rigid as stone against Ringil’s. A surprised little noise escapes him. But his mouth opens readily for Ringil’s tongue and at this point, that’s enough of a victory for Ringil. He plunges in, taking everything he can find…

And if Seethlaw is not yet giving as good as he’s getting, well, Ringil knows how to remedy to that. The hand behind Seethlaw’s neck stays in place, while the one on his face travels down his neck, down his chest, settles on his hip. He digs his fingers there and smiles savagely when Seethlaw gasps into the kiss and a shudder runs through his body.

They don’t have any time to spare, so Ringil pushes the dwenda back all the way to the desk and traps him there with a thigh shoved between his legs. Sure enough, he can feel Seethlaw’s cock already filling and rising inside his breeches. Ringil rocks his hips, almost brutally, and smirks when Seethlaw hisses against his mouth, and the long, strong fingers eagerly climb up and around Ringil’s arms, until they can bunch into the back of his shirt, pulling Ringil closer still.

Ringil keeps his one hand digging into Seethlaw’s hip; he needs the anchor, the control, as he lets go of Seethlaw’s head to drag his fingers down to the laces keeping the dwenda’s breeches closed. Seethlaw doesn’t protest, doesn’t break the kiss; if anything, the short growl which escapes his throat seems to be meant to urge Ringil on.

Ringil wastes no time. He doesn’t need to look; his fingers tug, pull, push and untie, until the loose-fitting black breeches are open, and Ringil can slip his hand into the soft underwear, and wrap it around the hot iron bar of Seethlaw’s erection. The dwenda hisses again, but he’s hanging onto Ringil’s shirt more desperately than ever, his tongue can’t seem to get enough of Ringil’s mouth, and the first familiar groans are starting to fill the room, each of them piercing Ringil with an ever-deeper ache in his own belly.

Yes, _this_ is what he wants: Seethlaw alert and responsive under his touch, demanding, impatient…

Ringil drops to his knees, ignoring Seethlaw’s grunt of surprise and protest as he has to let go of his hold on Ringil’s shirt. He relinquishes his grasp on the dwenda’s hip and prick, eagerly drinking in the snarl of frustration this earns him. But then he’s hooking his fingers of both hands into the soft underwear, and pulling both it and the breeches down the ivory-white hips and thighs, and Seethlaw gasps and sways and has to quickly curl his hands around the edge of the desk to keep himself from falling, and everything is all right again.

Ringil takes one long, deep breath, dragging that familiar and so dearly missed scent all the way into his lungs. Musk and spices and the bone-deep ache of memories of times when he thought he could never have any of this again… Taste follows, eagerly, as he pushes the foreskin down the large head and runs the flat of his tongue over it, catching the first drops of clear liquid leaking from the slit at its top.

Seethlaw’s almost angry growl, and the sharp pain of his fingers grabbing a handful of Ringil’s hair and twisting it in a spasm, reverberate throughout Ringil’s mind and body, setting them on fire wherever the echoes land. He resettles both his hands on Seethlaw’s now naked hips, and feels them tremble under the touch. He squeezes, hard, and it’s a shudder and his name spat out almost as a curse which he gets as a reward this time.

He pushes his head forward, drags his lips down the hard shaft, cups it on his tongue as he goes. Now both of Seethlaw’s hands are in his hair, tugging and pulling, and his hips are trying to escape Ringil’s hold on them to better fuck his mouth, and the _sounds_ he makes… Gods, yes! Ringil drinks them in, works his tongue and lips and throat to coax more of them out of the body twisting and shivering in his grasp.

Until… “Gil.” Barely more than a rasp of a voice. “Gil, fuck, what are you waiting for?”

… What? Ringil isn’t sure he likes this, but he pulls back nonetheless, allows Seethlaw’s cock to slip out of his mouth with one last mournful lick, and looks up. Seethlaw has closed his eyes. It takes him a few moments, and a couple of long, harsh breaths, to gather himself back together. And gods, he’s _beautiful,_ nearly lost in his pleasure like that…

When his hands leave Ringil’s hair, grab his collar instead, and _pull,_ Ringil doesn’t resist. He stands back up, and willingly gives the wild, deep kiss Seethlaw demands from him. But then…

“Just fuck me already.” The words are growled against his lips, yet Ringil hears them just fine. Still, he can’t help but frown, because there’s something _wrong_ in the way Seethlaw says them. There’s hunger, and need, but there’s also something else underlying them, something that doesn’t sound right, that nags at the edges of his memory…

Something which has been there all along, he suddenly realises, but which he simply never noticed.

Everything happened so fast, that first time around. He never had the luxury to just stop and reflect on his situation, let alone on the more subtle discrepancies in Seethlaw’s behaviour. It didn’t help either that he and Seethlaw spent most of their time together in the Grey Places, where Ringil’s capacity to think straight about _anything_ was severely hampered to begin with anyway - and that was without Seethlaw himself messing with his head.

But now, with the benefit of two years of additional life interfering with the renewed immediacy of those memories, he sees it unfold in his mind’s eye - sees the change, the gradual slide, the creeping _wrongness_ \- and his stomach churns and tightens.

Once again, though, he has no _time_. No time for this now, no time for thinking! No time to try to untangle the dark puzzle he can see setting itself up in his head. Not when he can sense the coldness sneaking back into Seethlaw already in response to his own lack of reaction. Not when he can feel the mood teetering in the body pressed close to his. He’s about to lose the momentum he’s managed to create, and Seethlaw with it.

That won’t do. Almost reflexively, his hands grip the slim hips as hard as they can, because they are the only thing he _can_ hold onto right now to make sure Seethlaw doesn’t slip away from him after all. It’s the answering hiss of mingled pain and arousal which escapes the dwenda, that does the trick in the end, pulls Ringil back into the immediate situation, spurs him into action.

Quickly, almost violently, he turns Seethlaw around. With one hand planted firmly between the wide shoulders, he bends the dwenda over the desk and keeps him pinned there. With the other, he unlaces his own breeches and pulls his cock out. He spits into his hand, once, twice, and clearly feels Seethlaw squirming under his hold. The accompanying growl, and the way the long fingers try to dig into the wood of the desktop, are signs enough of the desperate impatience running through the dwenda’s blood.

Ringil doesn’t make him wait. He slicks the both of them up, and then pushes into the hard, white, cool body under him. Seethlaw jerks and snarls, but Ringil doesn’t stop. He can tell there must be as much pain as pleasure spreading out from Seethlaw’s ass at this point, but he also knows from experience that Seethlaw will curse him out if he pauses or even slows down - and _now_ he realises how that knowledge itself is wrong, _wrong, so wrong_ , but he has _no time for this now_ , he has to go on, he’ll deal with this later!

And so on he goes, inch by unforgiving inch, until he’s fully sheathed and Seethlaw abruptly stops moving.

For a moment, almost held in blessed time, Seethlaw is immobile, spread out and satisfied under Ringil’s gaze. His chest is heaving under Ringil’s hold, and his breath is all loud gasps filling the room, but his eyes are closed, his brow relaxed, his hands are barely twitching where they lay on the desk. There’s almost the ghost of a smile on his lips…

And there’s an icy fist wrapped around Ringil’s stomach, but not now, _not now,_ he can’t afford to--

When the dark brows furrow again, and the line of the white mouth hardens, Ringil knows the moment has passed. On another day, he might have waited for Seethlaw to snap at him to move already, but today he’s too unsure of what might spill out of the white lips to take that risk.

He pulls his hips back, and then slaps them forward again. Seethlaw muffles a scream, and Ringil can feel the hard arse and thigh muscles cramping around his dick and under his hand, but he doesn’t stop. Again and again, he pulls almost all the way out and plunges right back in, tugging the narrow hip into him every time. Seethlaw growls and bites his own fist to keep himself from yelling, but his back arches with each thrust of Ringil’s into him, and the hand he’s not using to gag himself is threatening to leave gouges into the desktop - and despite the vague sickness of knowing something is deeply wrong somehow, despite the constant heartache of the last few days, Ringil feels a cool, sharp-edged coil of victory wrap itself around his mounting pleasure.

He couldn’t get Seethlaw to talk, but this - _this_ \- he can still give him, and wrench from him.

In this moment, Seethlaw is his, fully his, and his only.

As if to confirm this, or to assuage any lingering doubt he might have had, his name claps into the air in a broken sob, muffled too late, and followed by moans which Ringil recognises as a familiar litany. “Gil… Gil, yes, _Gil_ …”

This is the point where he should reach around, grasp Seethlaw’s prick, and pump him to orgasm, but that’s not what Ringil wants today. He can tell by the way Seethlaw starts squirming again that the change in the expected routine is frustrating him, but he doesn’t care. He bends further forward, pushing harder on the hand splayed in the middle of the broad back, and renews his grip on the narrow hip, before changing his rhythm to a faster, shorter one, deliberately setting himself on the last stretch of his own journey. On and on he goes, barely pulling out before snapping right back in, burying himself as far as he can into the welcoming depths of Seethlaw’s body, dragging the wonderfully sensitive skin of his prick’s head over and over again into that velvet-soft and tight, tight, _oh gods so tight_ grasp!

Ringil is pretty sure he hears himself whine when he comes, but he doesn’t care. He’s too overwhelmed, too busy dealing with the rush of bliss as his balls empty themselves deep into Seethlaw’s body, and his nerves thrum with the resulting waves of relief and ecstasy and victory...

And then it’s gone, and he’s wrung out, physically and emotionally, and all he wants is to let himself go, to let _everything_ go, to just sprawl down onto Seethlaw’s broad back, and forget! Forget, if only for a minute. Forget about the confusion and the worry; forget about the unwanted, unexplainable ache in his chest that just won’t leave. Just forget, and enjoy the last traces of pleasure ebbing through his veins, and the hard, solid presence of Seethlaw under him, and--

But Seethlaw growls and shifts in desperate, frustrated need, and Ringil remembers what he meant to do.

Shakily, he straightens up and withdraws from Seethlaw’s body, ignoring the dwenda’s nearly enraged snarl at the sheer loss and emptiness Ringil knows he must be feeling. Instead, he grabs him by an arm and a hip, and _pulls_ sideways. Seethlaw follows with a grunt of surprise, half-raising back up as he turns around - and then pushing fully to his feet with a barely-bitten-back howl when Ringil once again kneels in front of him and swallows him whole.

Ringil hums approvingly when the long, thin fingers once again thread through his hair. Seethlaw moans and shudders in reply, his body curling around his pleasure, his hands convulsively pulling on Ringil’s head to keep him fully impaled on the rock-hard prick - and that coil of victory flickers back to life inside Ringil’s chest, chasing away the ridiculous grief…

He keeps himself steady, lowers his hands onto his own thighs, as Seethlaw _finally_ gives in to his need to the full, and proceeds to relentlessly fuck Ringil’s mouth, with no apparent concern for his well-being.

And Ringil wouldn’t have it any other way. He relaxes his throat muscles, stops his gag reflex as much as he can, focuses on breathing through his nose in time with Seethlaw’s thrusts. His jaw hurts, his throat hurts, even his lips hurt when Seethlaw slaps against his face, but Ringil doesn’t care. Seethlaw is nearly wailing now, his hands are bunching Ringil’s hair into tight, angry knots, and he’s shivering all over with the pleasure he’s plundering out of Ringil’s willing mouth…

And when he comes, with a sharp cry, his whole body curled into a tight ball around Ringil’s head, burning tears escape Ringil, as a taste he had thought he would never experience again bursts onto his tongue and down his throat. Sweet and salty, warm and spicy, unlike anything else he’s ever known - and his for the taking, again, against all odds, against the cold certainty of death itself.

Seethlaw is alive. Seethlaw is coming down his throat. Seethlaw is collapsing over him, all desperate gasps and involuntary shuddering jerks. Seethlaw is letting Ringil gather him into his lap, is dropping his head onto Ringil’s shoulder. His breath is loud in Ringil’s ear as it brushes against Ringil’s neck. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, so strongly that Ringil’s own body seems to be vibrating with it.

Seethlaw is _his._ Right now, for a minute, Seethlaw is Ringil’s just as much as Ringil is his. For a minute, they are together, without any of that incomprehensible defence wall Seethlaw has built around himself these last few days. For just a moment, Seethlaw forgets to keep Ringil at arms’ length, forgets that he’s angry with him or scared of him or whatever the fuck is going on in his head, and lets Ringil hold him close, and kiss his chin, and swallow his gasps in barely-there brushes against his lips.

It doesn’t last long at all, but Ringil enjoys every instant of it.

And even though it rips his soul apart when Seethlaw suddenly goes rigid in his hold, and the pitch-black eyes snap open and stare at Ringil in surprise and too many other emotions Ringil refuses to recognise, it’s still worth it.

It’s worth it, even though it hurts when Seethlaw slithers out of his grasp as though the contact of Ringil’s skin was burning him. It’s worth it, even though it hurts when Seethlaw won’t look at him as he pulls his breeches back up. It’s worth it, even though it hurts like hell when Seethlaw turns away to finish rearranging his clothes and his hair, and there’s something _so very wrong_ in the line of his shoulders, something that looks like—

Ringil shakes his head. His heart is throbbing hard enough as it is, both in pain and victory. For now, he will take what he’s been given, what he’s managed to wrestle for himself, for the both of them. The rest can wait till he finds the time and mental space to stare it in the face and figure out what to do about it.

When they have both made themselves presentable again, and Seethlaw is waiting by the door with his back to Ringil, Ringil steps up behind him. He softly wraps his hands around the faintly trembling shoulders, lays his cheek against the dwenda’s hair, and whispers into his ear, “Promise you’ll come and find me in Trelayne.”

Seethlaw shivers, very noticeably. Ringil feels and hears him swallow. His voice is frighteningly flat when he replies, “I promise.”

Ringil’s heart falls. _So we’re back there, are we?_ He squeezes the shaking shoulders, once, plants a kiss into the soft hair, takes a deep breath - and lets go. Lets go of Seethlaw, lets go of trying to control the situation, lets go of any languishing hope that he might have truly changed Seethlaw’s mind.

But as he opens the door and leads them both outside, he _doesn’t_ let go of the memories of Seethlaw taking what Ringil was offering him, and even asking for more. _His_ Seethlaw is still here, hiding under whatever turmoil of emotions Ringil accidentally set off back in the marsh.

And once they meet again in Trelayne… Once it’s just the two of them again, as it was in the Grey Places before Risgillen and the others showed up… _Then_ he will find a way to reach out to that Seethlaw, and wash away whatever is causing him to shield himself behind that mask of disinterest and that wall of defencive rage. He will pull him to the surface of that lake of shadows he’s drowning in, and hold him aloft, until the dark, glittering Aldrain warlord Ringil fell in love with, mocking and stubborn and dangerously passionate, can stand on his own two feet again, and start dragging Ringil around on his fool’s errand once more.

_I’m not letting you fail yourself again, Seethlaw. Not in any fucking way. You can count on that, whether you want it or not._

**


	13. Ringil

Nothing has changed by the time Ringil strides outside the inn again. Ashgrin and the two dwenda nobody ever bothered to introduce to Ringil are still standing to the side of the door, in the shade of the building’s eaves. Pelmarag and Sherin are still down on the street, each holding a horse’s reins.

Pelmarag looks up as Ringil strolls down the stairs. His frown turns into an outright scowl as he takes in Ringil’s bruised lips. His gaze flickers over Ringil’s shoulder to the inn’s door, where Ringil guesses Seethlaw must be standing by now.

“Had a good _talk,_ did you?” The amount of hostility in the dwenda’s voice, and in the way he slaps the horse’s reins into Ringil’s hand before stalking away, takes Ringil by surprise. A voice in the back of his mind warns him that he can’t afford to antagonise the only ally he seems to have made among the dwenda so far, but by the time he turns around, Pelmarag is already halfway up the stairs - and the others are just staring down at Ringil in a way that makes it clear he won’t be gone a moment too soon as far as they are concerned.

Except Seethlaw, of course, who just has his back turned to Ringil, and who doesn’t seem to react at all when Pelmarag touches him on the shoulder and starts talking to him.

The last thing Ringil sees before he too turns his back on them, is Pelmarag shooting him a very angry, very poisonous glare…

“Let’s go,” he tells Sherin. If she notices how empty his voice is, she doesn’t let it show.

**

It’s the second time he’s riding down that road with Sherin at his side.

He doesn’t remember much from the first time; he’s locked most of it away. It hurt too much. Only jagged memories remain: the occasional lancing pain in his arm, the tightness and soreness in his jaw, and those moments when his heart would break without warning all over again, and his chest would constrict to keep it all inside, to stop the grief and the loss and the anger from taking over, and he would feel so dizzy that he feared he might fall right off the horse…

It was a living nightmare, and he was glad when Sherin asked him to avenge her, to punish the traders who had tortured her, because it gave him something to plan for, something to focus on, something to _distract_ him.

Now, this time around…

Dammit, this time shouldn’t feel anywhere as bad as it does! Seethlaw’s alive. The Aldrain invasion has been put on hold. Ibiksinri is safe. Nobody’s wounded, at least physically. It’s a full-blown victory for now!

… So why the fuck does he feel so miserable and exhausted?

Well, he knows why. But there is nothing he can do about it at this point. He will have to wait until Seethlaw finds him in Trelayne - _and you better not choose this opportunity to start reneging on your promises, you arse!_ \- and they can finally have a good talk, and he can… he can…

_You can tell him you could totally become his new Dark King? Except not really, of course, because you don’t want anything to do with magic. And also you don’t approve of the way he and his people interact with humans in general. No more using slaves as sacrifice. No more of those fucking heads mounted on tree stumps. No more… anything, really. So you can be everything he wants, but only if he changes his mind about everything he wants in the first place?_

Ringil shakes his head. He’s not thinking straight anymore; he knows it. He’s desperate for _action,_ but action is precisely what he can’t rush into this time around. He wants to get into an argument, a fight, to yell at someone or maybe even kill them, but that’s something he _can’t afford_ anymore!

He closes his eyes, takes a deep sigh. Lets the sensations of the road and the countryside wash over him - the sound of the clip-clopping of the horses and the familiar, reassuring smell of them, the whistling of the wind in the bare trees and bushes, the damp cold of the late winter air against the exposed skin of his face and hands…

_A few weeks. Just a few weeks. You can do it. You can wait--_

“Ringil?”

Sherin’s hesitant voice, barely audible over the constant whine of the wind, pulls him out of his thoughts with a start. His eyes snap open, and he turns his head towards her in a jerking move which sends a twinge of pain through his neck and shoulders. “Yes?” Even his voice is rougher than he meant it to be, but Sherin doesn’t seem to notice. She’s looking around her with a small frown, as if she doesn’t quite understand where she is, nor why.

“Are we really going home?” Her tone is torn between wonder and disbelief. The same feelings fill her eyes when she turns them towards Ringil and stares at him. “Are they really letting me go?”

Ringil finds a reassuring smile deep within himself, plasters it on his face. This time, he controls his voice, keeps it firm yet quiet. “Yes, really.”

Her eyes grow wide. “But… _why?_ ”

Of course… What can he say, though? How can he explain? He shrugs. “Seethlaw and I are… friends, I suppose. He did this as some sort of peace offering, you see?”

No, she doesn’t see; that much is clear from the renewed frown on her face, deeper than before. But she doesn’t insist. She nods, and turns her attention back to the road.

… Ringil is pretty sure she’s sitting a little straighter in her saddle, though, and there’s a stronger line to her shoulders and her jaw. It’s a strange feeling, the way his heart both breaks apart and rejoices, as he understands that for the first time since he rescued her, she’s truly allowing herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, her ordeal might be over.

He knows better, of course. He knows that tonight, and every night until they reach Trelayne, the nightmares will plague her, and he will have to hold her as she screams and cries and thrashes. He knows that even once he delivers her to her mother, she will never be truly free again; as a slave with no paperwork, she will have to hide in her parents’ home, possibly forever, and hope that nobody tells the authorities that she’s there.

And also—

It comes like a kick under the ribs, the sudden realisation that if he has his way, if he finds a path for the Aldrain to come back into this world, then Sherin might _never_ be able to put her haunting memories away for good, to properly recover from them - not with living reminders of her time in the marsh walking freely around in the League cities.

He suddenly feels nauseous.

And yet… _It’s not like Seethlaw kidnapped her himself, did he? The dwenda are not the ones who turned her into a slave in the first place, a commodity to be sold and bought or exchanged. And they are certainly not the reason she will be house-bound for the rest of her life for her own safety._

The dwenda did not invent slavery. In fact, according to everything Ringil has learnt over the last two years, there was no slavery at all in the Aldrain Empire. Slavery is a purely human practice - one, he remembers bitterly, he tried so hard and yet so futilely to eradicate in his previous life. _”I’m abolishing slavery.”_ Yeah, right. What could one man do against—

He blinks when an unformed shape of an idea pops to life in his mind. If he brings the Aldrain back… Then maybe, just maybe… Huh.

**

He finds money in the saddle-bags when they stop to have lunch, so they can afford to spend their nights in the lonely roadside inns which exist only for the purpose of hosting travellers to and from Ennishmin, like themselves.

Knowing what’s coming doesn’t make it any easier when Sherin starts screaming in her sleep, and Ringil has to slip into her bed, and wrap her close in his arms and hold her as the terror breaks into long, ragged sobs. Tears drench his shoulder before Sherin finally falls back into a fitful sleep, which he knows won’t even last until morning.

His eyelids are finally starting to feel heavy again when a move in the corner of the room slams him back into full wakefulness. There shouldn’t be anyone there! His hand is reaching for the pommel of the Ravensfriend laid next to him when his brain registers what he’s seeing, and a wave of relief washes over him. Not so much because the new arrival is harmless - he’s really, really not - but because that’s one confrontation Ringil has been impatiently waiting to have and get over with.

He disentangles himself from Sherin, tucks the blanket close around her, and goes to greet his guest. He opens his mouth—

— Closes it again as his mind goes blank.

He had _meant_ to say, “Been wondering when you’d show up,” but he finds that he _can’t._

The reason why makes itself known to him like mist rising from the ground on a wet morning. It comes from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, and fills every recess in his mind with a certainty as absolute as it is immaterial: he cannot allude in any way to what he learnt in his previous life. He cannot even mention that this previous life existed at all. Not to the Dark Court, not to anyone else.

Well… That should be fun.

He blinks to clear his mind as he struggles to regain his mental footing and start all over again. What would he have done if he had been in this situation the first time around? How would he have reacted?

Put like this, that’s easy. “Who the fuck are you and how did you get here!?” He’s aware that this falsely angry and defencive first impression is thoroughly ruined by the fact that he didn’t take the Ravensfriend with him to meet his potential enemy, but it’s too late to correct this mishap.

Dakovash doesn’t answer right away. The room is flooded in bandlight, but the Salt Lord has his back to the window, and his face is entirely hidden in the shadows of his large-brimmed hat. Only his eyes shine in the darkness, with a dull gleam which betrays no emotion.

That’s when Ringil understands, in that same definite yet undefinable way, that the compulsion goes both ways: Ringil cannot evoke anything stemming from his previous life, but in exchange, nobody can plunder his mind and pull any of that information out of it. This certainly levels the battlefield in some very interesting ways…

Ringil waits. It’s not in his nature to be patient in such situations, but let that be another enigma for Dakovash to chew on. Ringil is not the one whose plans are being derailed right now… When the Salt Lord finally speaks, his voice is too light, making an obvious show of not being actually interested in Ringil’s answer. “What are you playing at, Ringil Eskiath?”

Ringil shrugs. He’s not a dwenda; he can and will lie as much as he pleases. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “You haven’t answered my questions: who are you and how did you get here?”

Dakovash inclines his head. “Have you really not guessed?”

Ringil huffs. “I don’t want to guess. I want to know.”

The Salt Lord shrugs. He points to the door. “The door is locked.” He points to the window. “The window as well.” A beat. “And surely you’re too educated not to recognise me?” A touch of his hand to his hat; a swipe of his arm to make his patched cloak ripple and flare about him.

Ringil pointedly rolls his eyes. “All right, so you’re the Salt Lord, Dakovash. What am I supposed to do now? Fall to my knees and worship you?” He knows that’s a touchy, even risky, topic, which only means that the faster they deal with it, the better.

The reason the Dark Court bet on him in the first place is precisely because they knew he would never pray to them. Firfirdar herself told him. _”What use does any god have for worshippers who tug constantly at her sleeve like so many over-mothered children? Wanting, praying, needing, begging, asking for comfort, guidance, confirmation, a great big blanket of righteousness to wrap themselves up in from cradle to grave. We grow weary of it, and faster than you’d think. Give me some arrogant unbeliever over that any day of the week, and twice on holy days._ That’s _how heroes are made.”_

He argued, back then, that he’d had enough, that he was done. The Dark Queen only smiled at him. _”No, you aren’t. You are not made that way.”_ And now look at him, come back from the dead to fucking try _again!_ She really did - does - know him better than he did…

In the meantime, though, he has to deal with the one demon god who could never quite figure out whether he enjoys or resents Ringil’s insolence more. Dakovash can be too capricious and unpredictable for his own good - and certainly for the good of any easily-killed human around him.

Dakovash chuckles. “Would you?”

“No.” Flatly.

“Indeed.” The Salt Lord only sounds amused, as though Ringil just told a mildly funny joke. “So let’s not bother with this, and get back to _my_ question instead, shall we? What are you playing at?”

“Nothing.” Just as flatly. That’s not even a lie this time: Ringil is not _playing,_ though he wonders whether a member of the Dark Court would even still be able to catch the distinction between ‘trying to reach specific objectives’ and ‘playing’. It certainly seems to be all the same to them. 

“Stubborn, stubborn…” Dakovash still seems to find the whole matter rather comical. “All right, then let me spell it out: why did you refuse the Dragonbane’s help, _twice_ even?“

That’s an easy one. “Because I didn’t need it.”

Ah, finally a reaction. The burning eyes briefly widen in surprise. “Oh? Did you not trust that a _Dragonbane_ could help you get rid of your dwenda escort?”

“Oh, no.” Ringil allows himself a small smile. “I had no doubts about his _abilities_ in that matter.” How could he? He knows even better than Dakovash just how up to the task Egar could have proved himself to be if given half a chance. “I just had no _need_ for them.”

And there it is, the cold flash of the smouldering eyes, betraying Dakovash’s annoyance. “So that’s how it is, is it? You’ve decided to throw your lot in with the dwenda? May I—”

“No.” Back to the flat tone, but it cuts just fine through the Salt Lord’s tirade.

“… I beg your pardon?” The irritation is audibly rising.

Ringil keeps his own voice as measured as possible in counterpoint. “I have not ‘thrown my lot in with the dwenda’. I have not, in fact, chosen a side at all.”

This stalls the demon god for a minute. “I see,” he eventually whispers. “But I trust you are aware that you won’t be able to keep doing that? You _will_ have to choose a side, sooner or later.”

Ringil shrugs. “I was thinking of creating my own side, as a matter of fact.”

Dakovash outright splutters at the enormity of Ringil’s words. “Your _own_ side!? And what, pray tell, would that be?”

Ringil stares straight into the burning eyes. “The side of peaceful cohabitation.”

He’d expected it, but it still rankles when Dakovash bursts into mocking laughter.

“ _Peaceful cohabitation!?_ Oh that’s a good one! Ringil Eskiath, hero of Gallows Gap, of the siege of Trelayne, of the entire fucking war against the Scaled Folk. Ringil Eskiath, married to his Kiriath blade before anything or anyone else. Ringil Eskiath, who spent the last nine years cutting down assorted vermin in some forsaken place in exchange for the most basic of accommodations. _This_ Ringil Eskiath would have me believe that when confronted to the Vanishing Folk themselves, to their threat of forceful invasion, to their promise of enslaving the human race once again… He would choose to _negotiate_ with them instead of just carving as many of them up as he can, and sending the rest packing?”

And suddenly he’s right into Ringil’s face, so close they could kiss, and he’s hissing, “How much of a fool do you take me for!?”

It takes every drop of Ringil’s willpower not to step back, though he cannot stop his heart from jumping into his throat. His pulse is beating like drums in his skull as he stares into the flaming eyes in the shadowed face. “Believe what you want.” His voice is not as steady as he would have liked it to be, but it will have to do. “I told you the truth.”

On that matter, at least.

Dakovash hovers a few moments more, his breath chilly against Ringil’s suddenly sweat-drenched brow, before retreating. “I see,” he murmurs, almost as though he were only talking to himself. “There’s a veil on your thoughts. I suppose that’s a new trick they’ve put together since last time. If so, I can only imagine what else they’ve done to you.”

So Dakovash thinks Ringil’s intentions were planted into his head by the dwenda, along with the compulsion? … It makes sense, he figures. And it doesn’t particularly interfere with his plans, so he might as well not bother disabusing the Salt Lord of that notion - for the time being, at least. He just shrugs. “If that’s what you want to believe.”

“Well, you see…” The tone is light again, but underlaid with a clear edge of mockery this time. “It’s either that, or I’d have to believe that they somehow convinced you to listen to them, and _that_ would be extremely disappointing. I know they are masters at rewriting History, but I would still expect far better from you.”

Ringil forces himself not to react. It helps that he knows the words would die on his tongue, leashed back by the invisible constraint, if he tried to point out that _everyone_ has been rewriting History in this fucking conflict, including the Dark Court themselves.

“Mind you, it’s an interesting intellectual exercise all the same,” Dakovash continues, still in his openly taunting tone. “Which of their fanciful tales could melt a heart such as yours? Would it be the harrowing recounting of their unjust dispossession at the Black Invaders’ hands?”

The Salt Lord hums, pretends to ponder the matter. “Probably not. You know the Kiriath too well to fall for that one. Then what about… What about the promise of universal peace, of no more wars, of no more needless suffering, if only the master race were allowed to once again rule benevolently over humans too stupid and greedy to deserve their freedom? Now _that_ I think could appeal to you, Ringil Eskiath, disgraced hero, who nearly got himself killed for disagreeing with the handling of mere refugees. Wouldn’t it?”

Yes, it would, Ringil has to admit to it. There’s just the little matter of, “They and I don’t quite agree on how to treat the more… rebellious humans under their domination.” Those fucking _heads_ …

“Hmm.” Dakovash takes the words in. “True. I imagine you wouldn’t be too enamoured with some of their more, ah, _creative_ punishments. After all,” a sly, cruel grin suddenly visible in the shadows of the hat as Dakovash turns his head just right to catch the bandlight, “you’re not a big fan of torture as a means of controlling a population’s behaviour.”

 _Arsehole._ Ringil almost sways under the assault of the memories: the true memory of Jelim’s execution, fragments of the false one of Ringil’s own, as much as he can remember of it from his time in the Grey Places, and even his anger and then his satisfaction as he first saw and then banished the cages back in Gallows Water.

“So, not that either,” Dakovash concludes in an amused tone, as though none of this were anything more than a game to him - _and it’s not, Gil, it’s not. Everything is a game to them. You know that._

Dakovash takes a few paces. Raises a finger. “Ah!” Makes a long, deliberate show of turning whatever new idea hit him around in his head. “But no, probably not…” And then he’s back in Ringil’s face, too fast, but Ringil forces himself to take it in stride. “It _couldn’t_ be…” The smile is a leer now. “The Illwrack prince has fallen low, but he hasn’t lost any of his appeal - yet surely that couldn’t possibly be enough to sway _you,_ of all people, could it?”

Ringil tries, really tries to keep his features schooled.

And maybe this is what betrays him in the end.

Dakovash turns away and _roars_ with laughter - cold, mocking, malicious. His eyes are glittering with a hard cruelty when he pins Ringil with his gaze again. “So this is it, isn’t it?” His voice is a knife, its edge sanded with derision. “In the end, it all came down to that. Forget principles, forget higher aspirations, forget _heroism._ ” And now bitterness taints his tone. “In the end, it all came down to a pretty face, and a hard body yielding under yours as you fuck one of the fabulous, beautiful Vanishing Folk into oblivion.”

Still, Ringil forces himself not to react. Dakovash is neither wrong nor right. Yes, Ringil lost his mind and heart at a look from Seethlaw, but no, he didn’t let that come in the way of his… _heroism,_ since this is what they are all so intent on calling it. He killed Seethlaw, with no hesitation, and the wound to his soul from that decision bled every single day and night until his own death. He killed Seethlaw, and Risgillen, and pretty much every single dwenda who crossed his path, up to and including an _entire fucking army_ of them in the end!

He can’t tell any of this to Dakovash, though, not with the compulsion in place. He can’t explain that if he’s trying again, it’s not _just_ for Seethlaw’s sake, even if that’s indeed a huge, essential part of it. Nor can he inform the Salt Lord that he and his fellow Dark Court members should be fucking _grateful_ to him for trying again, because when all was said and done, none of them were happy with how everything ended the first time around.

He can’t explain any of this - and quite frankly, even if he could?

He wouldn’t. Not right now anyway.

“Fuck you.” He doesn’t need to reach for control for his voice to come out perfectly flat this time. There’s too much ice churning in his guts. He’s sick and tired of the Salt Lord’s endless mind games, of his constant casual malice. _Demon_ god, indeed.

Demons gods for a demon race. How fitting.

Dakovash’s leer turns ugly. “No, fuck _you,_ Ringil Eskiath. I have no idea who you’re deluding yourself into thinking you are, but let’s be clear here: whatever the dwenda told you, whatever grandiose dreams of marvellous fairy-tale destiny they put into your head, you’re still nothing more than a mere human being. And crushing human beings comes as easily to a member of the Dark Court, to _one of your gods,_ as saving them. No, strike that.” And now the voice seems to whisper directly into Ringil’s ears, even though Dakovash hasn’t moved. “Snuffing out a human life is a whole fucking lot _easier_ than saving it.”

Once again, Ringil forces himself not to react visibly, though he has no doubt Dakovash can pick up on how his heartbeat is stampeding anew, on the fresh rush of adrenaline flowing through his body. Instead, he glares solidly into the gleaming eyes, and jumps straight to playing his ultimate card. “If you’re serious about this, then you might as well do it now, because I’m not going to change my mind just to please you.” He lets a beat pass, as Dakovash stares incredulously back at him. “For the record, though: _they_ never lowered themselves to resorting to such pathetic threats to convince me.”

For someone who prises himself on being unpredictable, Dakovash’s reaction to Ringil’s little taunt is entirely _too_ predictable.

“You miserable, puny little mortal, who do you think you are, and what the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing!?” The demon god is spitting like an angry war cat now. “If you’re trying to piss me off, just keep going, because you’re doing a very good job of it. Though _why_ you would want to piss the _Salt Lord_ off, I really can’t fathom! Not praying is one thing. It’s amusing in its own way; it can certainly be entertaining. But if you’re going to go and insult me, to go and provoke _Dakovash_ himself, then you better be willing to pay the full price for it, hear that!?”

And there it is, the threat made good, as cold, invisible fingers trail over Ringil’s skin. They stroke against the nape of his neck; they steal the strength from his limbs, and leave him swaying on his feet, struggling to stand. He clamps his jaw, takes a deep, snarling breath—

— falls to his knees when some of those icy ghostly fingers reach _inside_ his chest, and wrap themselves around his heart, and his world implodes into a winter-land of twinkling frost dragging his thoughts to a halt, and frostbite burns its way from his insides out, pumps the deadly cold from his core into the rest of his body…

His vision is swimming. All he can see now are puffs of white mist breaking out from his mouth with each gasping exhale…

And Dakovash’s presence, looming over him, voice soft over a harsh, implacable spine of malice. “I enjoy a smart mouth as much as any of my comrades, if not more than most. But you _will_ learn—” 

Sweet, blessed relief pours over and into Ringil as the stone circle reaches out to him, claims him, frees him from Dakovash’s grip.

He kneels a moment longer, breathing in the achingly familiar swamp air, taking in the standing stones he’s grown to know so intimately in so many different circumstances, and the fog shrouding them as it so often does.

This wasn’t a chance he had been wanting to bet on so quickly, but he won’t deny that he’s fucking glad he was right! He knows, or more exactly suspects, that Seethlaw gifted him Cormorion’s refuge that night when they fucked here. He doesn’t know how, exactly; he just remembers how he felt, how the stones grew alive in his mind, how he could see himself through their non-existent eyes.

And he remembers how they saved him, in the exact same way, from Dakovash’s first intimidation attempt, after the disastrous attack on Poppy Snarl’s caravan.

He stands when his knees start to complain about the cold wetness they are being forced to dug into. He looks up, loses himself in the contemplation of the Moon, whole and pale and silver against the night sky. And for the first time ever, he can smile as his gaze fondly roams over the dark marks, like bruises that won’t fade on a beloved face - because once again, the sight of the Moon reminds him of Seethlaw, as it always does, but for the first time, there’s no yawning grief attached to the memory.

Because Seethlaw is still alive.

Still alive, and Ringil’s heart beats faster at the simple thrill of it.

He catches a flicker from the corner of his eye, the flapping of a cloak in the cool breeze of the swamp. Dakovash has found him again. The demon god paces, slowly, a dark silhouette floating from behind one stone to the next, hat slouched forward, cloak seemingly half-eaten by the mist.

Ringil waits. He knows he’s safe inside the stone circle, imbued as it is with the magic of a people who have never feared or acknowledged the _Ahn Foi_ as their own gods. They might trade with them, exchange favours, use each other, but as much as the Aldrain recognise the superior power of the members of the Dark Court, they don’t accept them as gods.

And as ancient and powerful as the Immortal Watch are, they are still subject to the laws laid by the Book-Keepers - and the Aldrain have enslaved one of those creatures.

It’s an eternal three-way stalemate, briefly disturbed over the last few thousands years by the presence of the foreign Kiriath, but playing out once again as the Salt Lord roams around the Aldrain stone circle, but doesn’t enter it - because he _can’t._

“You’re deluding yourself, Ringil.” The voice is calm, almost amiable. “The dwenda will never agree to a peaceful solution.”

Ringil shrugs. “I didn’t say I believe it’s possible. I only said that’s what I’m going to do.”

It’s not the first time he’s accomplished the impossible. That’s even how he earned his most tenacious title: the hero of Gallows Gap. He hadn’t actually _believed_ they could hold the pass; nobody in anything approaching their right mind would have. He only acted as though they were going to _fucking do it_ anyway. He convinced enough of his men to give more than they ever knew they had in them - and the impossible became not just the possible, but the realised.

It’s the same principle at work here: it doesn’t matter whether _he_ believes in his own goal. It only matters whether he can convince both enough humans and enough Aldrain - and one half-Kiriath - to work towards it. And _this_ is something he believes he can do.

“And you expect us to stand aside, I suppose?” The Salt Lord has turned snappish again.

Ringil just stares at him. “I never expected anything from you, and I won’t start now. You weren’t there when humans and Kiriath fought together to stop the Scaled Folk from eradicating us all” — Ringil knows he’s likely being unfair; the Dark Court probably did provide as much help as they could, constrained by the Book-Keepers’ laws as they were. He doesn’t care, though. Let the Salt Lord stew in the fact that nobody _witnessed_ that help, so it might as well have never happened. It’s not Ringil’s ego that’s on the line here.

“So whatever you decide to do this time,” he continues, “I have no reason to assume you will do it with the best interests of humanity at heart. If it aligns with my own plans, then good for me. If it doesn’t…” He shrugs again. “It will just be another obstacle in my way.”

He knows he’s being massively insulting in Dakovash’s eyes, reducing the Dark Court to a mere inconvenience he will deal with if and when the time comes. In his own eyes, though… _”Fuck you all gods. I’m done with you.”_ He’s done much worse already, hasn’t he, even if Dakovash can’t know about it. _”I piss on you all. I piss on your smug schemes and destinies and storied lies. Go on - fuck off back to the real world and play your hollow games if you must. Some of us have grown out of this shit.”_

A single god can’t cow someone who defied and defeated the entire Dark Court.

“So that’s how you want to play it?” Dakovash hisses.

Ringil interrupts him. “No. See, that’s the difference between you and me: I’m not playing. This is not a game for me. So go and look for some other toy soldier to entertain yourself with. I am _not_ going to be your fucking cat’s-paw!”

How often has he told them that, to Dakovash, and Firfirdar? _”I am not your fucking cat’s-paw.”_ He meant it, too, each and every time, all the way to the bottom of his soul - and yet they still had their way with him after all. But this time…

He looks up to Seethlaw’s _muhn_ again.

This time, hopefully, he knows enough to evade the Dark Court’s tricks, to stop them from using him to their own ends.

… He blinks when the small pale dying sun suddenly disappears, like a candle flame blown out. He staggers a little as he takes in his surroundings, realises he’s back in the inn’s room he shares with Sherin, who is starting to grow agitated again.

The Salt Lord is gone; the stone circle has released Ringil.

Quietly, he slips back under the covers and gathers his cousin in his arms. She calms down, though he knows it won’t last. He buries his nose into her hair; she’s familiar enough by now to provide him with a much-needed anchor while he focuses on calming his mind and heart. He breathes her in - her scent, her warmth, even the small distressed noises she makes as the nightmares start taking hold of her again - and waits for the adrenaline to wash away.

The blotched face of the Moon is the last thing he sees as sleep claims him, seemingly etched on the inside of his eyelids, as meaningless yet comforting as some cheap lucky charm he could have bought down at Strov market.

***


	14. Seethlaw

You’re running, and walking, and running again.

He would ask how long you’ve been walking for, and you can see yourself smiling at the absurdity of the question, but also shaking your head, and also snarling in pain because he’s not here to ask it and it _hurts._

All the alternatives, all possible, all unrealised, and all gathered together again, and it’s like breaching the surface of the sea after diving too deep. It’s the relief of being alive when your brain and body thought you were going to die. It’s cool, life-saving air burning down your throat and into your chest, and you can’t decide if it’s more painful or pleasant.

Risgillen is right - but then, when isn’t she? You spend too much time in the real world. The minds of humans are not made to tolerate travelling through the Grey Places, and as rankling as the acceptance is, nor are the minds of the Aldrain capable of handling prolonged stay in the real world.

There’s a difference, though, and not a small one either. Humans don’t _like_ it here; they want to go home, or at least to go somewhere stable, somewhere that’s not the Margins, even if it’s not their own world.

The Aldrain, however - or at the very least, _you,_ but you know you’re not the only one - lose sight of where they belong once they spend too much time in the real world. For some of you, losing your grip on the gathered collections of alternatives, letting them slip through your fingers, is a price more than worth paying for the exhilaration of moving through the solid reality of the determined possibilities.

Worse yet: some of you -- or maybe it’s really just you this time, because there’s always been something wrong with you, not that it matters anyway because you will never mention it to anyone, and you don’t think anyone will ever even think of asking, because how could they even conceive of such a blasphemy?

How could they conceive of the fact that you don’t even _notice_ how much you change when you go there? You tell them you do, and not to worry because you have a hold on it, and it’s not a lie, because you _think_ you do - but then every time you come back, you realise how far gone you truly were, and how you hadn’t noticed.

And how you don’t _care._

The real world robs you of your sanity, and yet, if you could, you would willingly spend all your days there. It blinds you with its unwarranted certainties. The fan of the alternatives narrows down until you become stuck in a rut which you didn’t even choose, and yet throughout it all, it feels so intimately, so absolutely, so breathlessly _right._

Something is wrong with you. Something has always been wrong with you. Pelmarag says—

You shake your head as you keep stumbling forward, step after blind, stubborn step. It doesn’t matter what Pel says.

Your cousin has always been the one person who understood your obsession with the real world best. He does, after all, have to deal with his own version of it. But unlike you, he knows to keep it in check. Unlike you, he knows to come back to the Grey Places when his grip on the alternatives starts to slip. Unlike you, he knows to immerse himself again in the unreality of the world between the worlds, where the Aldrain are most at home.

And unlike you, he doesn’t lose himself in humans. None of them do. Even when they fall in love, for a year or ten or fifty, they know to cut it off before they lose all reason to it. They know to come home and remember who they are.

You don’t.

They warned you, all those many years ago. They told you that it would be that way, and that you must fight it. But you didn’t. You couldn’t even fathom doing so. You could no more fight it than you could make yourself breathe under water. You gave it - you gave _him_ \- everything you had, everything you were, everything he needed you to be and have and do, because you would have rather died than refuse him.

You nearly did die, too, and yet you would do it all over again, in a heartbeat, just for the chance of watching him rule your people once more. 

Because that’s what they don’t understand: that this is the only time you feel _alive_ , the only way it matters to you whether you’re still breathing or not - when you can lose yourself in that bottomless, brilliant darkness which lies at the heart of those incredibly rare, exceptional humans.

That’s why you’re walking now. He’s not dead this time, but you’ve lost him all the same, just as surely, and so you walk once more, and you run until your lungs burn and your legs can’t carry you anymore - and then you walk again.

You’re going back _there_ , and it’s likely everyone will be mad at you again, but you don’t care. _They_ are the only ones who have the answers to the questions filling your mind, prowling around in your head like ever more hungry beasts. If you can find Them, if They let you come close enough, if They agree to talk to you… then it will still probably be all in vain, but it doesn’t matter.

Maybe They’ll tell you it’s none of your business - and it’s not, since he’s not _your_ Champion. Maybe They’ll condescend to sharing cryptic passages that won’t make any sense. Maybe They’ll recount how he will destroy you, and possibly your people with you. Or maybe this time They’ll make good on their threat and throw you out to the akiya. You hope not, because you said you would go and find him in Trelayne, and you hate to think that he might conclude you broke that promise. It wouldn’t really matter, considering how much he hates and despises you anyway, but, well…

Your heart bleeds at the thought of what that would do to Risgillen, though. Pel, Ash, Tal, they’d grieve too, of course, but they’d survive; they’ve gone through worse. Your sister, on the other hand… That’s the reason she saved you all those millennia ago, and then endured the consequences for endless centuries, isn’t it? Because she couldn’t see herself living without you. And even though you did at the time, you’ve long come to accept that you can’t actually blame her, because you would do the same in a heartbeat if the circumstances were reversed.

So when you finally cross that line, whether it’s at Their hands or at his, and you never come back… _I’m sorry, Ris. I don’t think you have any idea how sorry I am. It didn’t go the way I planned._ You never meant to hurt her. You never meant to fail her. And sure, you could turn around right now, and go back home, and give her a few more days with you. But…

You promised you would go and find him again in Trelayne, and you just can’t see yourself doing that without learning everything you can about him first. He may not be _your_ Hero, but he’s _a_ Hero, and you… You are what you are, what you were born to be, and even if you’re the last of your kind, even if none of the others - not even your sister, _especially_ not your sister - can truly understand what it means, you can’t help answering the call of your nature.

And so you walk, and you run, because even if time is slow here, it still trickles anyway, and you have so far to go before you need to come back and face him.

You walk and you run, and you try to ignore both the unrelenting ache that burns all the way down to your very bones, the one that set your world on fire the moment you realised he’d never been yours to have in the first place - and the odd, so odd, almost eager anticipation that makes your spine tingle at the idea that everything, all of this, all these endless, pointless centuries spent wandering aimlessly, all the pain and the guilt and the crushed hopes… All of this is almost over.

You’re not supposed to be looking _forward_ to it!

But if it’s at his hands…

If it’s at his hands, then it’s all right. Everything will be all right, somehow. The fan of the alternatives has shut down and cornered you into a deadly trap - and that’s all right.

***


	15. Archeth

Archeth had forgotten all about the cake she’d picked up. She was far too busy attempting to catch every single reaction of Ringil’s as he unwrapped his sword. She had been surprised enough that he apparently had not immediately guessed what it was; he had sent it to her just the day before! What had he expected her to do with it, really, if not bring it right back?

The gasp he let out when he finally understood what he was handling sounded far too loud and clear to her krinzanz-enhanced senses - and she felt like her brain, somehow, had missed a step in some mental staircase it had been climbing.

Something was wrong. Something was _really_ wrong.

Ringil should have guessed right from the start what her ‘present’ was. He should not have been surprised when he finally figured it out. And he should _definitely_ not be looking at it this way now!

Wrong. Wrong! _Wrong!_ Her mind was screaming, but she could do no more than mentally flail about, unable to grasp onto even the beginning of an explanation to start to make sense of a situation which kept evading her understanding a little bit more with each passing moment.

… It felt like an eternity until Ringil wrenched his gaze from the Ravensfriend and raised it to stare straight at her. It was the first time she could get a proper look into his face - she had chosen that seat for him precisely to that end, because it was the best lit of them all - and it came as a kick to the stomach, swift and harsh and breath-stealing.

He had changed. Incredibly enough, he looked both younger and older than she remembered. There were a few more lines to his face, and that faint blurriness to his traits that came to all humans as they left the prime of their youth behind. But his eyes… His eyes shone brighter than she had ever seen them. She’d never questioned it before but she felt that now more than ever, he truly deserved the nickname of Angel Eyes. There was a _light_ in them, so warm and so intense, even dimmed as it was by the inexplicable worry and grief the presence of the Ravensfriend seemed to bring him, that for a second, she thought she was back in An-Monal, standing in the sweltering heat of a sun-drenched courtyard at mid-day…

“My lady.” His voice was low, slow, and raspy with the same sorrow etched in the tight, anguished lines around his eyes and mouth. “Archidi.” She sensed Rakan bristle next to her at the use of such familiarity in their current, far too fraught circumstances. He wasn’t wrong either: that single word had given rise in her belly to a piercing hope she was now doing her best not to let show on her face - hope that Ringil was going to drop whatever act he was playing, that he was going to explain everything away, make everything all right again _somehow_...

“You know that I’m perfectly aware of the value of such a gift.” His eyes closed for a moment. The pain in them when they opened again twisted something vital in her chest. “So I trust you’ll understand that it is with the heaviest of hearts that I must refuse it.”

He took a step back without letting go of her gaze, hands hanging loosely at his sides, and jutted his chin at the chair. “Please take it away.”

He hadn’t touched it at all.

She swallowed. “It’s not a gift, Ringil. It’s your sword. I don’t know how it came to be in my hands, but I’m just giving it back to its—” He was shaking his head; she stopped.

His voice was almost gentle when he explained, “It hasn’t been mine anymore for…” He frowned briefly, confusion fluttering across his face, caught himself. “Several weeks. And I don’t know either how it ended up in your care, but I do know this: I cannot afford to take it back.” A hesitation, and then there was a begging deep in his eyes suddenly. “Please, Archeth, take it away.”

She wanted to do as he asked, she really did! But, “I can’t, Ringil. Not without a good explanation as to why you would reject my people’s personal gift to you” - she took a deep breath, drilled her Kiriath gaze into him - “at the very same time as you stand accused of allying yourself with enemies of humanity, and of conspiring to attack the Empire.”

He didn’t blink. Not a muscle moved in his face. For all that he reacted, he might as well have not heard.

But he was Ringil, and Ringil _always_ had an answer for her, even if it was a lie, or at least a deflection. That he should just stand here, arms to his sides, with no weapon visible anywhere on his person, while looking impassively at her… It was an answer in itself, even if one she didn’t know how to decrypt.

She tried not to choke on her own words. “You don’t deny it, then?”

His eyes flickered down. “The Ravensfriend, Archeth. Take it away, and I will sit in this chair, and tell you as much as I can without breaking promises I made to other people.”

… She gave in. She turned her head towards Egar. “Eg, please?” she whispered. While their friend silently left his seat to retrieve Ringil’s sword, she finally bit into the small cake she was still holding in her hand.

Her brain crashed to a sudden halt as a taste she remembered from many, many years ago filled her mouth.

She stared in disbelief at the remaining half of the pastry between her fingers. It didn’t look like anything special, but then it never had; its peculiarity was in its flavour. A unique flavour, made all the more delicious by the mystery surrounding it. Many were those who had tried to re-create it, but none had ever managed.7And then the Ninth Tribe had been eradicated, and the secret recipe of the Horse King’s Delight had been lost forever.

Until now. 

Her heart lurching in her chest, she turned her attention to her tea. Gingerly, she reached for the cup, brought it up to her face. It didn’t look like anything special either, but when she sniffed at it, she thought she recognised… what, exactly? Frowning, she took a small, careful sip - and once again, the taste exploded into fragments of impossible memories.

She’d only been a child at the time, far too young to properly appreciate the thick smoky flavour of the complex mix of tea and herbs. Her parents had laughed at the face she’d made, and her father had taken the offending drink from her, assuring her with a chuckle that she didn’t have to force herself, that he’d only wanted her to try it to “expand her horizons”. Her mother had given her another piece of Horse King’s Delight, “to wash the taste from your mouth”.

A couple of years later, the knowledge of how to prepare the tea - the exact proportions of leaves to use and how to mix them - had been drowned in the blood of the Ninth Tribe along with the cake’s recipe.

And now here she was, in Trelayne, thousands of miles to the North, tasting them again.

She looked up to where Ringil was finally sitting in his seat, across the table from her. Her voice, flat and breathless, pushed out of her tightened throat. “Gil… Who prepared these?”

His eyes briefly widened - and the alarm blared in her mind once again.

Gil had been set up - twice. First the Ravensfriend, and now this. She watched as he took a sip of his tea, and a bite from one of the cakes, and _clearly_ failed to understand what had her so worked up. Around them, others were also sniffing, but nobody commented. She wasn’t choking, and she wasn’t warning them away, so they had no reason to worry about poison, which left them in the dark as to what her problem was.

She had no time to dedicate to them, though, not now. _Think, Archidi, think!_ She pulled on the krinzanz fire in her head as she tried to unravel the reasoning as fast as she could.

Ringil didn’t know about the significance of the food and drink his guests were being served. This meant that he trusted whoever had prepared them, yet they hadn’t hesitated to go behind his back to play that trick on her - and only her, because none of the others here would ever have tasted any of this, they were far too young for that.

Someone Ringil trusted. Someone who would have any knowledge of recipes lost to humanity two centuries ago. Someone who wanted her, kir-Archeth Indamaninarmal in particular, to know that they had this knowledge.

The conclusion was obvious. _Dwenda._ But then--

“If you will share your thoughts with me, milady, I might help make some sense out of them.” Ringil’s voice was mild, but she heard the tension buried deep within it. He could tell she held cards he didn’t, and he was inviting her to lay them down.

She stared him square in the eyes, and answered in a similarly quiet tone, “You’re being played, Ringil.”

He shrugged, but the savage little smile which briefly bent his lips belied his apparent relaxed state. “That much is obvious, yes, if only from the presence of the Ravensfriend in this room.”

She shook her head. “Yes, there’s that, but what I’m talking about right now is” — she reached for another cake and held it up — “this.”

This cleanly wiped all traces of amusement from Ringil’s face. “I assure you, my lady, I gave no specific orders regarding the food to be served, so if anything is amiss, I would very much like to know.”

She took a bite and chewed slowly, enjoying the sweet taste, and the even sweeter memories it brought back. “No, I wouldn’t say that anything is amiss. Just…” She licked her fingers. “I’m not quite sure what message whichever of your dwenda friends prepared this meant to send me.”

Dwenda - the word was finally out in the open. A first step, a first cut, even if nobody reacted to it.

Ringil frowned and stared blindly at the plate of pastries for a few long moments. His voice was light, far too light and careful, when he finally spoke. “I could ask him.” His gaze came up, drilled once again straight into Archeth’s skull. “Or you could do it yourself, if you wish to.”

Archeth’s breath caught in her throat. “Now?” She heard the incredulity and trepidation in her own voice.

Ringil shrugged. “You will have to meet him sooner or later anyway. He’s my partner in all negotiations. I’m not Aldrain; nothing I say is considered binding without his presence as tacit, if not explicit, approval.”

 _A lot like Galat, then._ The invigilator wasn’t, strictly speaking, needed in these discussions, but the Empire could not afford to move without the accord, however tenuous, of the Citadel, which Galat represented.

Rakan’s voice reached rare depths of coldness when he snapped, “And that _partner_ of yours is around here?”

Ringil took the time to envelop the Throne Eternal in a calmly appraising look. “I am not entirely sure what you’ve been told, Captain, but just in case, I want it to be made clear that Pelmarag is only my business partner, nothing more.”

Archeth _wished_ she couldn’t feel the tension ease up in the room at these words. She could tell from the way the lines around Ringil’s eyes drew tight and harsh that he noticed it as well, and hated it at least as much as she did. She wasn’t surprised when his next words came in a far more clipped tone, with even an under-layer of mockery.

“As for asking whether a dwenda is ‘around here’ or not, that’s a nonsensical question. He could be standing right behind your chair, and you wouldn’t notice him.” To his credit, Rakan did not move, did not flinch at all, though Egar and Galat did, both twitching in their seats as though to check behind their backs. “The dwenda move between worlds at will, and you only notice them if they want you to.”

Archeth repressed a sigh. This was an answer designed to strike straight at the Throne Eternal’s pride, exposing his helplessness, his inability to protect Archeth in any significant way. It was, quite frankly, a low blow; Ringil could have made his point in a far less cutting manner.

But.

If Milacar was right… If Gil was really involved with another one of the dwenda… Then Rakan, and anybody else who had a problem with it, would have to swallow their dislike sooner or later, and just deal with it. _That_ was the real message in Ringil’s answer, and Archeth couldn’t deny that it needed to be said. She couldn’t fault him for going straight on the offencive on that one matter, and laying down that one necessary rule - even if she doubted it would take so easily. They would probably have to tread that particular path again and again, until it finally got through to everyone. 

Sure enough, Rakan’s face was only pinched with worry when he turned to her and whispered urgently, “My lady, we shouldn’t stay here a moment longer.”

She shook her head, as cool and collected as she could manage, to counter his disquiet. “I understand your concerns, Captain, but we need to have this discussion with my lord Ringil.” Rakan opened his mouth to protest; she cut him off with a raised hand, kept her voice level and almost firm as she said what he needed to understand, no matter how much he would hate it. “Moreover, if he wanted us dead, we would already be.” A single but emphatic grunt from her other side conveyed Egar’s agreement with that assessment. “So I say we stay here, and we meet that partner of his, and we do what we came here to do.”

 _Yes, Captain, we walked into an ambush, but we knew that was what we were doing all along. Time to face it now._ Judging by the way Rakan’s face turned to stone, that seemed to be the conclusion he had reached too.

Still, despite her resolve, an icy thread of apprehension coiled around her heart when she turned her attention back to Ringil and noticed how a ghost of that shit-eating grin she remembered so well was now playing on his lips. _No, Gil, no! You’ve made your point. Let it go, please._

He ignored her unspoken entreaty, or maybe just didn’t notice it, focused as he was on Rakan. “She’s right, you know, Captain.” His voice was honey and silk over steel - never a good sign. “For example, how many humans do you think are in this house, on this property?”

Archeth’s stomach clenched with fear. _What…?_

It seemed they all smelled the trap, because only silence answered Gil’s question, until finally Shanta took it upon himself to break it. “Well, besides us here of course, there are the guards outside in the gardens, and I imagine the butler who welcomed and served us is not the only serving personnel.”

Ringil’s grin grew wider, _wilder._ “Indeed…”

_Gil… Gil, no._

Shanta could have nerves of steel when he needed to. “Are you saying none of them are actually human, my lord?”

“Well…” Ringil waved his hand in direction of the door through which he had come and the butler had disappeared.

Archeth watched - they all watched - with barely restrained panic coursing through her veins, as that very same butler walked through the threshold once more. He wasn’t carrying anything this time. He was just advancing, one slow, deliberate step at a time…

Archeth barely heard the shouts of alarm, barely noticed Rakan and Egar jumping to their feet and coming to stand on either side of her, weapons drawn. The pounding of her heart in her ears was loud, so loud, as the elderly, slightly stooped man seemed to… to… She couldn’t find words to describe the way he shed his skin like a snake might, and it melted into nothingness, leaving behind…

She had read the descriptions. White skin, pitch-black eyes, unearthly beautiful. But nothing, _nothing,_ could have adequately prepared her for what she was seeing. She could only stare, transfixed, as the dwenda - all traces of the human it had still been just moments before gone as though they had never even existed - came to stand two paces away from her, and bowed stiffly.

“Lady kir-Archeth Indamaninarmal, may I present to you my proper greetings?”

Her brain struggled, even with the krin speeding it up. The voice was pure music, like nothing she would have ever expected to leave a mouth, not even among the best trained artists of the Imperial Court. The language was Tethanne, tinged with oddities she couldn’t place. But what both thrilled and terrified her was how the creature pronounced her name: most humans helplessly tripped over the long column of syllables, and even when they didn’t, they never quite managed to put the accents where they belonged.

But this dwenda? Her name fell from its mouth as though it spoke the High Kir tongue itself.

She blinked.

_As though…?_

It was worth trying. “You may,” she said slowly as she stood up and returned the bow. The creature frowned but seemed to follow the switch in language. “Would I be right in assuming that you are the lord Pelmarag Ringil told us about?”

The dwenda sighed, shook its head. “I must apologise, my lady,” it replied in Tethanne. “My grasp on your people’s language was never strong to begin with, and it has grown terribly rusty.”

… Archeth did not quite know what to do with the odd feeling of disappointment fluttering in her chest. _Are you really that desperate for non-mechanical company who speaks High Kir, Archidi? Already!?_ The little contrite smile on the dwenda’s lips did not help either. It seemed truly sorry, as though this made any sense. _That’s a sly one. Pay attention._

“That’s quite all right,” she said in Tethanne as firmly as her krin-loaded nerves would allow her. “I was just wondering, is all.” She waved a hand in a dismissive way. “To repeat my question: I assume you are the lord Pelmarag Ringil told us about?”

“I am indeed, milady. Pelmarag of Illwrack.” Archeth couldn’t read anything in the blank, black eyes, but she felt a shiver run down her spine when the dwenda stared at her as though expecting her to have any kind of reaction to its words.

The moment passed. The creature briefly shook its head, before turning to Ringil. “It seems you were right.” There was more than a hint of… not quite disappointment, but something very much like it, in its voice.

“Will that be a problem?” Gil asked in return.

The dwenda shrugged. “I suspect so, though not for me so much as for her. How do you expect to explain to her the parameters of our venture when she knows nothing of the history behind it?”

Archeth twitched as a jolt of annoyance ran through her. “What exactly am I _supposed_ to know here?”

The dwenda turned back to her. “Everything,” it said flatly. “You are kir-Flaradnam’s daughter, and he left you in charge of continuing his mission. Yet, it is beyond my understanding how you are supposed to accomplish this, when you know nothing of the relationship between our peoples.”

“You--” Archeth gritted her teeth, tried again. “Your people were _gone._ There was nothing for me to know there.”

Once more, she felt herself shivering under the weight of the empty stare. “My people were exiled by yours, my lady. What did Flaradnam the Wise think was going to happen when we noticed the Black Folk were gone, leaving behind one half-blood child with no knowledge of her own history, let alone ours, and no training in the engineering which had defeated us in the first place?”

It was like a blow to the sternum, leaving her completely winded. She _wanted_ to deny the truth this creature was so coldly dumping into her lap, but no matter how hard she looked for an escape, she couldn’t find one. _Dad? Dad, what…?_ How could her father have failed to tell her about something like this!? Fostering the Empire was one thing, but how was she supposed to protect all of humanity against an enemy whose very existence she wasn’t even aware of?

 _Dad, what went wrong??_

It was Ringil who answered that question, in a tired, sad voice. “I told you, Pel. Flaradnam, Grashgal, and the others, they… they _forgot_.”

“Only because they _wanted_ to.” The dwenda’s tone was as sharp as it was bitter. “It didn’t even take them a thousand years to rewrite history, did it? To turn the ugly reality of the long war, of our defeat and merciless exile from our home-world, into their own foundational myth.”

The Indirath M’nal, it was talking about the Indirath M’nal, Archeth realised dimly.

“And so of course, they couldn’t afford to remember the details of _how_ they won that war in the first place, or even simply of who we were and that _we still existed_.”

“Well,” Ringil replied softly, “in their defence, back then, they didn’t think they would ever be able to leave, so those matters were a rather moot point.”

“Yes, and so they could afford to forget about us.” That blank stare, back on Archeth again, though how she could tell when the creature was looking at her and when it switched to Ringil, she had no idea. “Never mind that when they _did_ depart after all, they could _not_ afford to leave one of their own behind, without telling her about the people who would inevitably come back, and might possibly want to enact their vengeance on her.”

Archeth’s blood ran cold, but she still retained enough grip on herself to grab Rakan by the sleeve and keep him into place at her side before he could launch himself at the creature. She held the empty gaze, sent her own Kiriath glare drilling into it - became aware with a shock of the fact that she may very well have met the first creature who wouldn’t be impressed by it, but she had _no time_ to dwell on this, she must _move on_ \- and asked quietly, “Are you going to?”

“No.” Simply, like something almost too obvious and trivial to be mentioned. “You played no part in the war; we have no score to settle with you.”

“Not to mention, of course,” Ringil gently interjected - and Archeth realised that he was deliberately keeping his voice as mild as he could to counter the eruption of feelings this meeting was creating on both sides - “that we are assembled here to try to reach some _peaceful_ solution to that little problem we’re all facing together, and threatening the Emperor’s envoy would hardly benefit that endeavour.”

He was trying to steer them back into safer waters. She did her best to follow his lead. “Indeed,” she said stiffly, as she sat back down and pulled Rakan and Egar with her. “And since everyone involved has now arrived, maybe it would be time to lay down what exactly that problem is?”

Ringil kept silent for a moment. His gaze followed the dwenda as it retreated to the war table and took a seat there, with its arms crossed over its chest. “Very strictly technically speaking, no, not everyone involved is here.”

Archeth repressed a twinge of annoyance. “Oh, by all means, go ahead and invite your League allies,” she snapped. “That should—” He was shaking his head; she stopped and frowned.

“They are not the ones I was alluding to.”

“Then who?”

“The ones who gave you the Ravensfriend.”

Her brain stalled again. She had assumed that he was the one who had sent her the Ravensfriend; his reaction had made it clear that she’d been wrong. The next logical conclusion was that the culprit had to be the same creature who had also set him up with the cakes and the tea - but that didn’t seem to be Ringil’s opinion. Then…

“Are you telling me there’s yet a _fourth_ party involved in this matter?” That seemed somewhat ridiculous. There were already far too many sides fighting against each other in this battle of shadows!

“Hmm…” Ringil sat back in his seat, and crossed his leg, ankle over knee. He settled one elbow on an arm of the chair, and lightly rested his chin on the back of his hand. His gaze flitted back up and fixed on her. “Yes indeed, and it’s a party whose existence and involvement in this business you are already, I believe” - a glance to Archeth’s side, where Egar was sitting - “aware of.”

Archeth heard Egar’s sharp intake of breath. She sensed more than she saw the eyes of everyone else look in confusion at her and Egar in turn. None of them had been told how the Dragonbane had come to be in Ennishmin when she and Rakan had found him, after all. More than anything, though, she felt her stomach drop and her mind lurch as she understood what Gil meant, and struggled to accept it despite two hundreds years of staunch disbelief working against her.

In the end, it was Egar who broke the silence, in a weary whisper. “Urann’s balls, Gil, you can’t be serious.” _You tell him, Eg…_ “The Sky Dwellers? You gave the Ravensfriend to the fucking _Sky Dwellers!?_ ”

The way Ringil’s face shuttered close was answer enough to Archeth, but he replied anyway. “Yes, I did.”

“But… _Why?_ ”

He briefly closed his eyes. “In payment for a favour.” He looked away. “When the Dark Queen offers you a deal, you don’t get to discuss the particulars. You either take it, or you refuse it.” A pause, and then the grief was back in his face and voice when he concluded quietly, “I took it.”

He was steadfastly staring into the gloom in the corner of the room, and there was a rigidity to his stance that wasn’t there before.

Archeth’s voice was soft, almost gentle, when she asked, “I don’t suppose you’d tell us what she gave you in exchange?”

His gaze was overly bright when he settled it again on her. “Not yet, no. You wouldn’t understand, at this point.” A quick, brittle smile flashed on his lips. “I do hope I’ll be able to tell you someday, though.” 

“All right.” She had expected as much: if he had wanted to tell them, he would have done so already. “Then do you at least have any idea why the demon gods would send the sword to me?”

He seemed surprised. “Oh, that’s obvious, isn’t it?”

She glared at him. “Not quite, no.”

“Actually, my lady…” Shanta’s voice was quiet, but firm. Along with Galat, he had so far only listened - very intently - to the exchange between Archeth, Ringil and Egar. If he felt like speaking up now, though, Archeth knew better than to dismiss him.

She was also interested in Ringil’s reaction to the old engineer’s presence. Shanta’s name and function, along with everyone else’s, had been on the invitation they had sent to Gil, and since Rakan and Galat were easy to place from their respective uniforms, Ringil would have had no problem identifying Shanta by default. But had he guessed _why_ Archeth would drag an elderly naval engineer all the way to Trelayne? Did he even _know_ about the attack on Khangset? Had his dwenda allies told him about it?

So far, he was showing no reaction whatsoever to Shanta’s presence, and nor was he asking for clarifications on the matter. Archeth admittedly didn’t quite know what to make of all this. _Better keep your mouth shut and your eyes open a little longer, then. See if he lets anything slip out._

She turned her gaze to Shanta, and nodded.

The old man nodded back, briefly coughed into his fist, and turned towards Gil. “Am I right, my lord, in assuming that those, er, gods, are unhappy with the return of the dwenda?”

“ _Very_ unhappy, yes.” Ringil almost winced, and his voice turned frighteningly sober. “They will do everything in their power to prevent it.”

Shanta only nodded again. “Then it makes sense.” He turned back toward Archeth. “My lady, what was your first reaction upon discovering the sword?”

She frowned - and then understood where he was going. She grimaced. “I assumed Ringil was the one who’d sent it, and wondered what kind of message he was trying to convey.”

“Exactly.”

She heard Egar groan, Galat let out a very soft, “Oh,” and Rakan briefly fidget in his seat. They’d been played. Fucking _played!_ Just as much as Ringil himself!

He didn’t need to, but Shanta explained himself anyway. “A last-minute manoeuvre, to ensure that whatever goodwill we had built towards Master Eskiath here would be weakened, if not outright shattered, and without giving us neither time nor opportunity to gather our wits again and properly come down from our initial shock and rage.”

Perfect. Fucking perfect.

“Don’t call me that,” was Ringil’s only whispered answer.

Shanta blinked. “I… beg your pardon?”

Gil smiled bitterly. “Eskiath. Don’t call me that. Ringil, Master Ringil, lord Ringil, anything you want, but not that.”

Shanta seemed nonplussed for a moment, but then nodded. “As you wish.”

“Thank you.”

Archeth took the time this little exchange afforded her to wrestle a rather desperate, krinzanz-enhanced grip on her emotions. She was angry, and she was quite a bit afraid, but giving in to either would not help right now.

“All right,” she started slowly. “So the Dark Court objects to your plans?” Gil nodded. “That… would make them _our_ allies, then?”

Ringil’s lips twitched, but in a grim way which sent a spike of fear up her spine. “Rule number one when dealing with the very appropriately named _demon_ gods, Archidi: they are nobody’s fucking allies. Forget this even for five minutes, and they _will_ find a way to use it against you.”

“Too right.” Egar’s voice rose, sharp and somber, as he stared down at his hands. “Just look at what happened to my brothers, to _help_ me, he said!” Ringil raised an eyebrow; Archeth minutely shook her head. Egar looked up at Gil again. “That why you won’t touch the Ravensfriend, then?” It barely sounded like a question at all.

“Indeed. I gave it to Firfirdar. Firfirdar gave it to Archeth. Among humans, that would mean that Archeth is free to give it back to me if she so chooses. But I’m not willing to bet on it where the Dark Queen is concerned. I have no doubt that if she tried hard enough, she’d find a way to twist it into me reneging on our deal, and that’s a risk I cannot afford to take.”

Oh… That made sense, Archeth figured. It certainly explained the mix of surprise, grieving longing, and extreme caution, which had imbued each of Ringil’s moves and expressions when he’d finally realised what her ‘present’ was.

“All right.” She started to summarise the situation as well as she could. “So what do we have?” A glance towards the dwenda, who was studying the maps on the war table as though none of this concerned it. “My people left, so the dwenda are coming back.” A nod from Ringil. “The Dark Court is not happy about that, so they’ll do whatever they can to stop it.” Another nod. “And you, Gil, are working with the League to plan a take-over of Ennishmin.”

She was _very_ annoyed when he shook his head at that last one. “Ringil, please, that’s an open secret!”

“It’s an open secret that I’m in talks with the League, yes. I would know: I’m the one who did my best to spread that knowledge far and wide enough that the Imperial spies would pick up on it and relay the information to Yhelteth.”

The silence which followed was almost smothering.

Ringil didn’t let it last. “When Seethlaw was negotiating with the cabal, you can rest assured the secret was well-guarded. The Empire would likely not have heard about it until it was too late. But things have changed: my goals, or I should rather say, my _methods_ , are not Seethlaw’s, and as such my needs are different as well.”

Archeth blinked, tried to rally. “And your needs include… interference by the Empire?”

A shiver ran down her back when Ringil gave her a grin she knew only too well and which always presaged troubles in one way or another. “Not interference by the Empire, no. What I need, Archidi, is cooperation _with_ the Empire.”

That… was too much. Archeth felt herself standing up and raising her hands. “And I, in turn, need a break.” What she _really_ wanted was to get shit-faced on krin, but she’d have to wait until she was back in her rooms at the Embassy to indulge in this. In the meantime, she would have to do with some air.

She heard and felt Rakan and Egar leaving their seats and falling in step behind her as she made her way to the doors of the balcony in the middle of the external wall. She had to pass by the war table, but to her great relief, the dwenda ignored her as much as she ignored it.

She would have thanked the gods for small favours if she’d believed in any gods in the first place.

**


	16. Archeth

Archeth gripped the balcony rail, tight. She was relieved to find that at least, she wasn’t trembling: not her hands, not her shoulders, not her legs, nothing. It was probably obvious that she was shaken - they all were, she had no doubt - but it didn’t need to _show._

Rakan and Egar had taken their usual places on either side of her. Rakan stood straight and rigid, with one hand falsely casually laid on the pommel of this sword. Egar, on the contrary, was bent over, with his forearms propped on the railing.

They were all silent. Silent, nervous, anxious even, but they weren’t going to admit it - not to each other, and certainly not to anyone who might be watching them.

Overhead, the sky was being its usual northern, grey, porridge-like, shitty self. Archeth absent-mindedly noted to herself that after a while, even “at least it’s not raining” lost its consolation power. How anyone could manage to grow up here and not become depressed before they even reached adulthood was beyond her imagination. She was already starting to miss Yhelteth’s sun and heat rather fiercely.

In front of her, the garden trees waved their still-naked branches listlessly. Down south, they would have been covered in vigorous burgeons, maybe even sporting their first delicate leaves for the more audacious ones. Here, they didn’t even seem to be aware that spring had come yet.

She sighed and lowered her gaze. Her eyes caught on a pair of guards slowly patrolling around the courtyard where the unmarked Embassy carriage was parked. She could also distinguish another pair making their way along the paths deeper in the garden.

She frowned. Her stomach twisted into painful knots as Ringil’s question exploded back in her mind. _”How many humans do you think are in this house, on this property?”_ He hadn’t excluded the guards when Shanta had mentioned them, and Milacar had told Egar that Ringil had replaced absolutely every member of the personnel...

She stared and stared at the pair below her, hoping and dreading in equal measure the moment when they too would shed their human appearance like Pelmarag had done. But they didn’t, and her eyes insisted on telling her that these were nothing but perfectly normal humans, and oh, how she desperately wanted to believe that!

Her brain, however, could only come to a very different conclusion. A very _frightening_ conclusion, too. She was trapped more than a thousand miles away from home, inside a house whose layout she didn’t know, among creatures which had once been her father’s people’s deadly enemies - and as far as she knew, her survival hung entirely on the will of one human, who may be one of her very best friends, but who was also presumed to be deeply involved with these creatures, and whose actual extent of power over them was undetermined.

This time, her hands on the railing did shake.

She closed her eyes, took a long, quiet breath, and let it out in a slow sigh. Now was _really_ not the time to lose her wits. Whatever Ringil meant by “cooperation”, she was going to have to be at the top of her game to deal with it. She simply couldn’t _afford_ to mess this up. She couldn’t afford to let so much as the _threat_ of another Khangset rise up, and she couldn’t hope to dump this mess onto anyone else. She _had_ to--

She heard the tell-tale soft clicks of another balcony door being unlocked not so far to her side. Automatically and very warily, she snapped her eyes open and turned her head around. Indeed, the doors of the neighbouring balcony were swinging in. Next to Archeth, Egar straightened up, pivoted and took his place in front of her, while Rakan stepped to her side. It was quite unnecessary, really, considering that there was a gap of at least three to four yards between the two platforms, but it wouldn’t be said that they didn’t take their jobs as her bodyguards seriously.

Together, they watched as a tall figure stepped lightly onto the balcony.

… And the world stopped.

Ivory-white skin, laid tight over delicate features. Long flowing black hair. And those unmistakable eyes, balls of wet pitch scattering the thin afternoon luminosity into dancing arcs like a puddle of water would.

Dwenda.

But beyond this initial, immediate recognition, that wasn’t what caught Archeth’s attention, grabbed it in an iron grip, and refused to let it go. That wasn’t what sent a familiar, helpless heat blooming in her guts as she stared, breathless, while the newcomer walked up - impossible grace, unhuman poise - to the end of the other balcony, and stood there, head slightly cocked, watching Archeth’s little group as though they were strange beasts it had never seen before.

The fire spiked, incandescent and searing, raging a little stronger inside Archeth’s belly with each additional moment she spent looking the dwenda over…

The shoulders were wide, though not as wide as Pelmarag’s, just enough to almost painfully emphasise the dip of the waist, where the lines of the torso pulled in smoothly before flaring out again over thin but perfectly curved hips. The legs were long and slim, with shapely thighs that filled the close-cut breeches. And up on the chest, breasts bulged round and firm under the tight-fitted jerkin.

_Beautiful._

For all its otherworldliness, the creature was by far one of the most gorgeous things Archeth had ever laid eyes on, and she could feel herself falling, hard and fast and hopelessly, as her gaze roamed over the amazing body, before settling on the equally wondrous face. The brow was high and smooth, the nose thin and straight. The chiseled cheekbones were a work of art in themselves. The lines of the jaws and of the chin were firm yet graceful. The lips…

Archeth swallowed; her own mouth had dried up. She stared, entranced, as the corners of the creature’s long, full lips curved ever so slightly up… And then they opened and a short, subdued flow of lilting syllables fell from them. Archeth didn’t understand a word of it, but she didn’t care. She could have listened to that musical voice - female, undeniably female - speaking that nonsense for days.

It took her a rather ridiculous amount of effort to raise her eyes to meet the creature’s gaze - and instantly, she felt like she was both drowning and pinned to a board like some insect in a collection. She knew, she just _knew_ , that the dwenda was staring back at her, and was talking about her. That the creature’s attention was as focused on her as Archeth’s was on it - and Prophet’s balls, did that recognition make her heart run and pound inside a ribcage which seemed entirely too small to contain it suddenly!

For a moment that might have been a second or an eternity, they just stood there, she and that creature out of legends and humanity’s wildest dreams, a mere few paces apart. And if it had asked her to climb the rail and jump over to the other balcony… She would have done it, without a second thought, without even any worry that she might fail and fall to her death. In that one moment, she would have done anything that creature asked of her, just for a chance to be with it forever. 

And then another dwenda voice, male this time, whispered in the same fluid tongue the female one had used, and the unhuman eyes, shimmering in the weak, ever-changing, cloud-filtered sunlight, briefly looked away - and the charm broke. Archeth slammed abruptly back into her own consciousness. Her mind reeled and staggered as she resettled into her body, into her current circumstances, into _whatever the fuck was happening._

Blinking in a futile attempt to clear her head, she forced herself to focus on the second dwenda, standing next to the first one, right behind its shoulder, one hand on its arm. It was speaking into its ear, and Archeth couldn’t help but appreciate the perfection of its profile. But then it tilted its head to look at her, and…

Something slipped inside her brain as her gaze skittered back and forth between the two creatures. The rational part of her mind insisted that she was seeing things that weren’t there, that she was simply too unused to dealing with the dwenda yet, but she also remembered how she hadn’t felt any of this when comparing Pelmarag and the female dwenda.

No. She wasn’t mistaken; she wasn’t imagining anything. There was absolutely a resemblance between these two which was far too strong to be accidental, and that realisation sent her thoughts floating, un-moored, on a sea of confusion that shouldn’t even be there in the first place, because how could she be surprised by something so basic!?

 _Family._ She had known, intellectually and obviously, that the dwenda had, must have, families, like everyone else. Humans did; the Kiriath did. When Pelmarag had mentioned its house’s name, Archeth hadn’t been surprised, because _of course_ the dwenda would have houses too.

And yet, here she was after all, shaken deep inside simply looking at the pair on the other balcony half a dozen yards away from her - because now, suddenly, it _struck_ her: the dwenda had families, and houses. They had a society. They weren’t just creatures of legends, existing to instill awe or adoration in gullible humans. They were _real_. They were flesh and blood; they had will and emotions. They were…

They were _people._

People like her. People like her Kiriath father and her human mother. People like Grashgal, and Jhiral, and Egar and Ringil. People - like _everyone_ she had ever known.

They weren’t just creatures; they were _people_. They may be immortal, but so were the Kiriath, and Archeth knew only too well how very real, how very _alive_ the Kiriath had been. She knew how they had had dreams, and hopes, and fears. How they had laughed and cried and raged. How they had wanted, loved, grieved, hated.

And now, only now, did it occur to her that there was no reason why the dwenda - the Aldrain - should be any different, no reason why she should _consider_ them to be any different. They weren’t trapped spirits like the Helmsmen. They weren’t half-mindless beasts like the corpsemites or the steppe ghouls.

They were people.

People with dreams, hopes and fears, like everyone else. People who dreamt of coming back to their home world. People who hoped to reclaim a place for themselves to live in. People who feared the continuation of their long exile.

People.

She swallowed and squeezed the guardrail, tight. This meeting she was having with Ringil… These discussions, these negotiations… They weren’t some academic debate she was supposed to win on behalf of the Empire. They weren’t just another political argument where she was expected to ensure that the Empire came out on top somehow. No; what they were…

What they were…

Archeth’s throat tightened up. She closed her eyes against a wave of dizziness.

What they were, was another Ninth Tribe in the making. They were another Ennishmin all those years back after the war. They were another Vanbyr, too.

They were yet another group of _people_ begging the Empire to let them live in peace in their homeland. They were another case of arid diplomacy threatening to reduce an entire population to mere numbers and other abstract entities purely for the sake of making the Empire appear strong in its own eyes, and in the eyes of the League which would only hate it all the more for it.

They were politics about to mindlessly crush _people_ under their cold, cruel, _inhumane_ heel - again.

And she, Archeth Indamaninarmal, had sworn that she would never allow such things to happen anymore.

She’d promised it to Ringil after Ennishmin, and then she’d broken that promise in Vanbyr, and she’d never forgiven herself for it. And so she’d sworn it to herself this time: never again. She would never again allow anything of the sort to happen if she could at all prevent it.

Of course, she had never imagined - _could_ never have imagined - that the next group of people this oath would call upon her to defend would be her own people’s once mortal enemies, but what did it matter? An oath was an oath, wasn’t it? And people were people, no matter what they looked like and what they might have done at some point in the past. The Kiriath themselves had certainly never been pure angels of mercy, even just over the couple of centuries Archeth had been around to witness their actions.

_Well… All right, then._

When she opened her eyes, the pair of dwenda had disappeared, which was both a blow and a relief. She had a feeling she had already revealed far too much, despite her best efforts.

She straightened up. Gritted her teeth, clamped down on the jitters running along her nerves. She could really have done with some krin right now, but she didn’t have any, and she wasn’t going to ask for an adjourning of the meeting just because she needed a dose. She would manage; she’d done it before.

… Granted, she’d never been confronted to a dwenda straight out of her people’s past before, but if Ringil helped her even half as much as he seemed willing to do, she could work through this.

She gave the guardrail one last squeeze before letting go of it. Chin up, she strode back into the room where _people_ were waiting for her to discuss how to build a reasonably peaceful future for _everyone_. She walked around the war table, sat herself straight opposite the dwenda, stared into its surprised eyes, and asked about the one matter that would determine everything else.

“Tell me about Ennishmin.”

Forget about the existence or non-existence, and the interference or non-interference, of so-called demon gods she’d been taught all her life not to believe in. Forget about long-gone wars her father’s people had never told her about because they’d apparently erased them from their collective memory for whatever reason they couldn’t admit to. Forget - temporarily, anyway - about the Khangset incident, and the potential military threat to the Empire the dwenda presented. Forget even about the sexual glamour she, and Egar and Rakan, may or may not have been placed under out there on the balcony - _and to think that just last night, I was telling them we were safe on that matter. Ha._

Forget about everything.

The only thing that mattered right now, was to _understand_ what truly motivated the _people_ she had been called upon to deal with. What mattered was to listen to them, to grasp their mindset and emotions - and then to find a better solution than another Ninth Tribe or another Vanbyr.

She may be her father’s daughter, as everyone everywhere kept reminding her, from the Helmsmen at home to this dwenda sitting right here. Her Kiriath heritage may be the only thing people saw when they looked at her, and thought of her. She may have been left behind to carry on a mission she’d never had a chance to choose for herself, and to deal with generation after generation of humans who sometimes seemed to expect nothing less than magical miracles from her.

But she was more than just that. She was more than just kir-Flaradnam’s daughter and heir.

She was also her mother’s child, and her mother would have been just as horrified about Vanbyr as she had been about the Ninth Tribe. She was also Ringil’s friend; she’d once made a promise to him, and she’d broken it, and now he was hoping for cooperation from her? Well, she wasn’t going to let him down again, not without trying her damned best first.

She was Archeth. She was her own person. If this dwenda sitting opposite her was willing to give her a chance, despite her appearance, despite what her father’s people had done to the Aldrain, despite everything, simply because she, herself, had not participated in those long-ago wars…

Then she was going to do things her own way, for once, for the first time in her life, and whatever that meant, wherever it took her.

 _Fuck you, dad, for dumping this into my lap without even warning me. I’m listening, mom. And Gil…_ She slid her gaze to where he was sitting himself next to the dwenda, caught his eyes, didn’t let go. _I’ll trust you, you fucking hero of Gallows Gap, and saviour of humanity, and one of the best friends I’ve ever had. Just have my back in this, just don’t force me to betray the Empire, and I swear I won’t fail you, not again. Lead on, Your Craziness; I’m right behind you._

***


	17. Ringil

Ringil sighs and throws the piece of parchment on top of the others already haphazardly piled on the table he converted into an over-sized desk, in the reception room of Grace-of-Heaven’s villa on Replete Cargo Street. He’s really not in the mood for more diplomatic bullshit lingo today. Whether it’s the agreements between the various Free Cities, or the accords between the League and the Empire, or the many-times revised trade partnerships between seemingly everyone and everything on the entire fucking continent, in the end, they all fold down into the same, common, three-pronged agreement, no matter how delicately couched.

_Here’s how we’ll fuck you. Here’s how we’ll let you fuck us. And here’s how we’ll team up to fuck everyone else._

And the best part of it? None of the signing parties ever intend to keep their word anyway. Those accords are never promises made in good faith to keep to an ideal agreed upon together. They are only an admission that should one party be caught cheating, the others would be considered justified in taking retaliation actions. Hell, more often than not, those penalties are included directly into the agreement itself!

_”The tongues of men are not much leashed by concern for accuracy or truth. It seems lies come very easily to your race. They lie to those they lead, to their mates and fellows no matter how close drawn, even to themselves if it will make the world around them more bearable. It is hard to know what to believe in this place.”_

Ringil reacted with anger when Seethlaw wearily spoke those words - yet he’d be damned if he could say now where that defensiveness came from. It’s not like he hasn’t known for most of his life that humans are indeed liars and deceivers. He himself had to learn very early on, and in the harshest possible way, to hide entire aspects of his life nobody should even have cared about in the first place, aside from those he invited into them. And from there, he just kept on lying.

He lied to his parents. He lied to Grace-of-Heaven. He lied to his Academy teachers. He lied to his military commanders, and to his subordinates too. He lied to Flaradnam and Grashgal, to Archeth and Egar. He lied to Naranash, that day on Rajal beach, just so the Kiriath knight would die with hope and pride in his heart. He lied to every-fucking-body in Gallows Gap, telling them they had a chance, when he knew damn well they didn’t.

All his life, he’s been lying, like everybody else, because humans lie and deceive, all the time. It’s what they do.

So why was it so hard to hear it from Seethlaw’s mouth?

For all his many dubiously moral actions, Seethlaw never lied to Ringil. He never deceived him. When Ringil asked questions, he answered them as fully as he thought Ringil could understand. He played mind tricks on him, yes, but he never denied doing so; quite the contrary, he was disturbingly open about it, about how he was deliberately manipulating Ringil to keep him more obedient and pliable.

And when he made him a promise, when Ringil demanded not only his cousin, but also horses and time to escape, Seethlaw fulfilled that obligation to the full, no matter how angry or disappointed with Ringil he was - and no matter that he didn’t _owe_ Ringil anything! No matter that Ringil had nothing to give him in exchange. No matter that he could just have killed Ringil right there and then and be done with that human annoyance. He had seemingly promised to Grace-of-Heaven and possibly to some others than he would not kill Ringil when Ringil came knocking in Etterkal - but Ennishmin was far from Etterkal. To a human, that promise would not have held any longer.

But to a dwenda? Maybe it did.

Ringil even remembers, with a mental snort, how he chided the Dark Queen herself for implying that Risgillen had lied to him.

 _”The dwenda do not lie,”_ he told her.

_”Do they not?”_

_“That was my understanding, from my time spent with Seethlaw. He saw deceit as a human trait he must learn. He was quite bitter about it. Risgillen was his sister, and junior to him in their schemes. It seems unlikely she would have learnt the trick any faster.”_

Firfirdar had been forced to admit to the truth at this point. _”Well, then, she perhaps told you the truth as she understood it.”_

And Ringil had drawn the only logical conclusion. _”You lied to her.”_

Which Firfirdar had not denied…

Humans lie. The Dark Court lies. The Kiriath lied.

But the Aldrain don’t, and maybe that’s why Ringil reacted so badly that day: because he couldn’t deny that, at least in this one matter, Seethlaw’d had a point when he’d said that _”the superiority is evident.”_

Of course, most everyone else would argue with a sneer that the Aldrain’s inability to lie is a _weakness,_ possibly even an essential part of the reasons why they lost the war against the Kiriath and the Dark Court in the first place. And they would even be right, because _when dealing with crooks, you have to be an even bigger crook if you wish to survive_. This is a very basic lesson Ringil was taught from childhood, both explicitly and implicitly, by his parents and tutors first, and then by Grace and Poppy and Slab, and even the Kiriath reinforced it, with their ruthless way to manipulate entire human dynasties and populations.

But the Aldrain, for all that they were once humans, dozens of thousands of years ago, seem to have forgotten about this. Even seven thousand years spent ruling over humans in a world-wide empire apparently wasn’t enough to remind them about this - about the need to lie, and about how to do it.

Ringil holds onto that belief as he rests his head against the back of the high chair he’s sitting on, and closes his eyes to better summon the memory of Seethlaw’s face.

He holds onto it with all his might as he whispers, “Come on, fucker. You _promised_ you’d come. I’ve been here for two weeks already. I’m waiting!”

He swallows. His throat is stupidly tight suddenly.

“Come on… Don’t make this the first lie you told me… Please!”

**

It’s not that Ringil’s bored. He’s been rather busy, in fact, over those two weeks.

*

He drops Sherin at her mother’s home, with firm and grim instructions that she never leave the estate, lest she be recaptured.

”There’s no paperwork,” he explains as he gives her one last hug. “I can’t prove I got you back legally. The slavers will probably know better than to come for you here, now that the Eskiath name has been mixed into this, but it would still be a lot safer if you didn’t make an easy target of yourself.”

Both women understand, nod, hold him tight as they cry tears of gratitude into his shoulder one last time.

*

His next stop is at the Glades. His mother is happy to see him; his father is very much not. There’s a whole lot of yelling, and no sleeping at all, throughout the single night he spends there. It’s the old usual refrain all over again: he has dishonoured the name of Eskiath by defaulting on his duel with Iscon Kaad, and so Gingren would very much rather Ringil leave the city at once and disappear back into whichever backwater hole his mother found him.

Unfortunately, Ringil has other plans. Gingren is irate that Ringil won’t tell him just what exactly they are, but all Ringil can think of, is that it would be even far worse if he did know what Ringil intends to do. If Ringil has his way with Seethlaw, the pressures Gingren will find himself under from the cabal will make what happened with the Kaads look like mere inconvenience…

In the end, Ringil leaves with a heavy coin purse as his mother’s reward for fulfilling the mission she entrusted him with, and a promise to his father - which tastes of ashes because he has no intention whatsoever to keep it - to maintain as low a profile as possible if he insists on staying in Trelayne.

_Sorry, dad, can’t do that. But hey, look at it this way: at least now you’ll have an actual good reason to hate me._

*

Grace-of-Heaven…

Gods. Meeting with his parents was nerve-wracking and exhausting, but talking to Grace makes Ringil sick to his heart.

Grace is happy to see him - until Ringil opens his mouth, and calmly lays out the situation, and Grace’s role in it. Grace tries to deny everything at first, but Ringil only has to mention Seethlaw, and Grace instantly capitulates. He then tries to cajole Ringil into forgiving him, which isn’t even technically necessary, because Ringil isn’t truly angry at him. How could he be when, still unbeknownst to Grace himself, one of his greatest fears in this matter has come true, and neither Seethlaw nor Ringil will ever go back to him, to his bed?

When Grace offers to “put his mouth to better uses”, Ringil feels nauseous with pity. He pushes down the too-easy retort that’s already coming up to his lips, about how Grace can’t possibly hope to still satisfy him after Seethlaw. That would be pure cruelty; there’s no point to it. The crushed look in Grace’s eyes, the crumbling line of his back and shoulders, when Ringil instead gently asks for permission to stay at his place in Replete Cargo Street for a few days, “oh, and could you tell Seethlaw to come and find me there if you see him before I do,” is more than enough revenge for anything Grace-of-Heaven has ever done to him.

*

Shalak takes one glance at him, and knows right away that something huge has happened.

“Did you find your dwenda then?”

A thin smile splits Ringil’s face. “You can say that.”

In turn, a greedy glint appears in Shalak’s eyes. “Care to tell me about it?”

“Not yet. But I need your help.”

Shalak’s disappointed, obviously, and more than a little confused, but he doesn’t refuse to provide Ringil with copies of all the documents he can find regarding all accords and agreements and laws in place within Trelayne, between the various League cities, and between the League and its neighbours. He offers to help Ringil decipher and understand them, but in token accordance to the promise he’s made to his father, Ringil pretends to be keen to keep as low a public profile as possible, and argues that travelling to Shalak’s shop every day or so would not help in that matter.

The truth, of course, is that he doesn’t want to risk missing Seethlaw if the dwenda shows up during the day, as unlikely as this is. This means remaining within the walls of Grace’s house in Replete Cargo Street as much as he possibly can.

*

He has more than enough on his plate to fill his days anyway.

There’s the headache-inducing study of the mountains of documents Shalak has delivered to him almost daily. There’s the rehearsing of his fighting forms, which he neglected in Gallows Water, and is sorely missing now that he’s back in his soft, out-of-practice body, with the slight paunch and the weak muscles. He certainly doesn’t want to go back to his gaunt, black mage self, but he could do with looking more properly warrior-like still.

There’s the endless nagging questions of just _what_ he’s going to do, _how_ he’s going to accomplish any of his goals. He’s perfectly aware that it’s pointless to give into them: he knows nearly nothing of the situation, so how could he so much as begin to formulate ways to deal with it? But the itch to prepare a strategy won’t leave him, and again and again, he finds himself cursing Seethlaw for wasting his time when he wants to get started on a plan, _any_ plan already!

*

And then night comes and he’s lying alone in his bed. It’s not Grace’s own bed, in that room Ringil knows too well. He will never go back to that room, to that bed, alone or accompanied. No, he’s chosen one of the guest rooms, and the bed is big enough, but it’s so _empty_ , it hurts! He remembers the Grey Places: the indistinct memories of lying down under the stars and the band - or the Moon - with Seethlaw, and the much more distinct ones of huddling under a canvas tent with Hjel… Funny, really, how the only time and place he’s _ever_ had a regular bed partner was out there, in that world between worlds, that undefined time…

And so he lies down, alone, and he closes his eyes and lets his senses recall the missing ghost to him: the perfect geometry of the pale face, the weight of the blank stare, the touch of all that cool, soft skin… He reaches into his sleep pants and strokes himself to memories of Seethlaw sucking him, riding him, kneeling sprawled in front of him as Ringil fucks him, wild and lost--

— And there it is again, that awareness that something went wrong, so wrong, because why is it that the only time he remembers Seethlaw taking him is on that very first night, and then after that, it was always, always Ringil doing the fucking, always Seethlaw snarling as much in pain as in pleasure as he didn’t give himself enough time to accommodate, as he pushed and pulled Ringil around until Ringil was left to take blindly something he didn’t even remember asking for or even truly wanting?

But he grunts, grips himself harder, shoves the unwanted thoughts away, and makes himself come to memories of his name falling from Seethlaw’s lips like a prayer…

*

And then when he wakes up in the morning, he goes back to waiting for the real Seethlaw.

Waiting. Fearing that all that waiting may be in vain. Driving that thought away as well. Waiting, again.

Waiting.

*

Seethlaw finally shows up at dusk, almost a week later.

Ringil is taking a walk through the gardens, to stretch both his mind and his body after another day spent working himself too hard, when he hears - _finally_ \- the sound he’s been waiting for, and feels the sensation he’s longed for so intensely for nearly three weeks now.

Laughter on the wind - though he suspects it’s not laughter at all after all, because he’s never heard Seethlaw, nor any of the other dwenda, laugh like this. _Probably just an artifact of the aspect storm. Neat trick to destabilise an enemy right from the start._

And that shiver creeping up his neck… He welcomes it this time, smiles at it, almost leans into it.

“Took your time,” he whispers into the cooling evening air.

He waits, not so patiently at all, as the blue fire storm twirls and gathers, and then dissipates again, leaving behind that tall, dark, unmistakably Aldrain silhouette, all long and thin limbs, narrow hips, and large, powerful shoulders. The long black hair is tied back; the pale face hangs in the shadows of the gathering gloom, the pitch-black eyes unreadable from where Ringil is standing.

Ringil takes a step.

Staggers when Seethlaw raises his hand over his shoulder and brings it back down, holding his longsword .

“What…?”

Seethlaw’s voice is toneless, but nonetheless cuts effortlessly through the air and through Ringil’s body alike, when he answers, “I came, as you asked. You have your sword. You know my name. It is time now, as you said, to finish this thing the way we started it.”

** 

Later, Ringil will be unable to remember precisely what happened. One moment, he was walking with open arms, and a ridiculous smile on his face, to welcome Seethlaw - and the next, the Ravensfriend is in his hand, and he’s automatically parrying against the dwenda’s attacks, all while desperately trying to understand what’s going on, and _how he can stop it!_

“Seethlaw, what the fuck!?”

The dwenda is not listening. On and on he comes, tagging Ringil high across the chest, on his thigh, on his arm… Ringil is reeling from the shock; his mind is still trying to catch up to the sudden turn of events. It’s all he can do to defend himself, relying more on half a lifetime of honed reflexes than on any deliberate thought or action.

“Seethlaw, dammit, _stop!_ ”

He might as well try to quell a storm with his voice. Seethlaw is relentless, pushing Ringil back through the garden’s paths.

And when Ringil’s brain finally deigns to unfreeze and start working again, it’s to point out that, _once again,_ Seethlaw is not actually trying to kill Ringil. He’s not wearing his armour. He’s not using magic. He didn’t take advantage of the enormous edge the aspect storm offered him. And while he’s being fast enough to force Ringil to fight back, he’s not being anywhere as fast, nor as forceful, as Ringil knows he _can_ be.

He’s not trying to kill Ringil.

He’s trying to get himself killed at Ringil’s hand.

_Again._

Ringil ignores the way his heart stutters at the realisation, and his stomach drops like a stone. He ignores even the cold sweat suddenly covering him from head to foot, and the faint but very real trembling in all his limbs.

He ignores it all, and focuses on only one thought as he strikes back.

_Not again. Not again! Not. Fucking. AGAIN!_

He pours every single one of the emotions thrumming along his nerves and making his blood pound in his ears, into his parries, and then into his attacks, as Seethlaw is finally forced to fall back in his turn.

Fury.

Bone-deep fear.

Confusion, so much confusion!

And above it all, pulling Ringil’s heart apart, making his eyes sting and his jaws clench…

_Pain._

Not the pain of his torn flesh where Seethlaw tagged him. Not the pain of his muscles straining under the stress of holding back the dwenda’s attacks, and then pushing impossibly fast and strong through his defences to try to disarm him. Not the pain of the headache he can feel developing behind his eyes, as both his mind and body struggle to so much as accept the reality of what is happening, let alone deal with it.

None of this matters.

All that matters is the pain of knowing that somewhere, _somehow,_ he’s failed again. He’s touched Seethlaw, and now Seethlaw chooses to die by his hand - _again_ \- and Ringil can’t _stand_ that thought. He can’t! Killing Seethlaw the first time around was hard enough, and Ringil didn’t even understand what was truly happening then. But this time?

This time, he understands - and he rejects! He refuses! _He will—_

A high parry. Now or never!

_Not—_

Drop the Ravensfriend, stoop and lunge forward under Seethlaw’s guard, head first, catch him straight in the stomach.

_Let it—_

Hook one foot behind his knee, and push him further backwards, short and hard, with both hands on his chest.

_Happen—_

Turn around while he tries to find his balance back. Wrap both hands around the single pale one holding the grip of the longsword, rather distractedly too.

_Again!_

Shift the stance to one leg, send the free knee up and out to make contact with whatever it will find, and use the diversion to savagely twist the hand in his hold at an impossible angle.

A sharp cry escapes Seethlaw as he falls backwards at the same time as the Aldrain blade slips out of his grasp, mercilessly wrenched away from him by the sheer brute force, born of desperation, that Ringil put into that most unorthodox of manoeuvres.

And then Ringil is spinning around, grabbing the freed sword before it can even reach the floor, securing his grip on it with both hands, and bringing it down to meet the white throat as Seethlaw is already rising back to his knees.

… And finally, _finally,_ Seethlaw stops moving, and turns into a panting, kneeling statue.

Ringil gives himself a minute to catch his breath. He’s trembling rather heavily, and when Seethlaw swallows, the blue-edged Aldrain steel scrapes against the line of his neck, leaving a thin dark trace starkly etched into the pale skin.

When he can speak again, Ringil takes a small step closer. He maintains the pressure of the sword against Seethlaw’s throat - as light as he can, but enough to stop him from moving all the same, if only out of pure reflex.

“Seethlaw.”

The dwenda ignores him, keeps his gaze focused somewhere far away to Ringil’s side.

“Seethlaw, dammit, look at me!”

Slowly, the empty eyes turn up and to the side. In the gloom, they catch the light of the band and reflect it, narrow silver slices dancing across the smooth darkness.

And then the full weight of that pitch-black stare is on Ringil, and he thinks, not for the first time, that he will drown in it…

Instead, he renews his two-handed hold on the sword’s grip, swallows, opens his mouth—

Knows that something is wrong, wrong, _wrong,_ when Seethlaw’s gaze slips down Ringil’s body, past his shoulder, to his elbow—

Guesses before he even has time to understand—

They move at the same time. In one swift, fluid motion Ringil can’t even properly see, Seethlaw’s hand shoots up Ringil’s sleeve, dislodges the dragon tooth dagger hidden there, grabs it and pulls it to his chest - triangular, serrated point first. Ringil doesn’t think, doesn’t have _time_ to think; the Aldrain sword charges down, seemingly of its own accord, to catch the dragon tooth, to stop it from—

He makes contact—

\-- but it’s too little, too late.

He watches in horror as the dagger neatly buries itself into Seethlaw’s chest to the hilt, even as the strength of Ringil’s downstroke jerks the dwenda’s body forward, sending him sprawling onto the garden’s grounds.

The Aldrain longsword falls out of Ringil’s hands, clatters to the floor, goes to join its abandoned Kiriath counterpart.

Ringil kneels, reaches for Seethlaw, turns him onto his back - registers the slackness in the dwenda’s body even as he does so.

“No…”

The pale pommel of the dagger juts, almost incongruously, from the dark tunic Seethlaw’s wearing. In the diffused glow of the band, small ripples of living, reflected light ebb from where the knife is embedded, and flow down to join an ever-growing pool of dark liquid on the floor.

“No!”

The stench of dwenda blood is in Ringil’s nose again - spicy, sticky, heavy on Ringil’s mind like an accusation, like a judgement, like a condemnation.

“No… No no no…”

Ringil reaches for the pale face, turns it towards him, but once again, it’s too late, too late! Seethlaw’s eyes are closed. There’s a steady stream of bubbling blood slipping out of the corner of his mouth.

“Nonono!”

Ringil feels his mind pulling itself apart in a desperate - and futile, he knows it already - attempt to find a solution, _any_ solution. The injury is lethal, that much is clear, even if Seethlaw is not dead yet; there’s far too much blood, and the sound of the ragged, gurgling, slowing breaths is like thunder in Ringil’s ears. Yet there’s nobody, _nobody,_ Ringil can call on for help.

There’s nothing he can do, but kneel there and watch Seethlaw die in a growing pool of his own blood - _again._

“No no please no…”

Ringil knows he’s babbling now. He grab handfuls of Seethlaw’s shirt, pulls him close, as though he could stop the flow of death with the warmth and presence of his own body. He lowers his forehead onto the dwenda’s shoulder, tries to keep the impending horror of reality at bay.

“No…” His voice is but a whisper now. “No please gods no…” He’s falling, falling…

“Oh, sure.” A warm, quiet female voice floats gently down to his ears in the night air. “That can be arranged.”

Ringil’s head snaps up. Dimly, he’s aware that he already knows what - who - he will see. He knows this voice, knows it too well. He doesn’t know which appearance she’ll be wearing this time, but it hardly matters. What matters is who she is, and what she can do.

Firfirdar, Mistress of Dice and _Death._

The beautiful face of the consumptive youth stares at him from the depths of her dark hood as she kneels on the other side of Seethlaw’s body. A delicate, almost feeble-looking hand slithers out from the folds of the cloak enveloping her from head to foot, and settles cautiously on Seethlaw’s chest, just a finger’s breadth away from where the dragon tooth dagger is buried.

Her voice is a whisper on the wind as she remarks, as though to herself, “An inch higher, and he would have died instantly.”

An inch higher… The Aldrain longsword, swinging desperately down, catching on the dagger, not enough to stop it - just enough to drive it lower, to give Seethlaw a chance.

… No.

Ringil realises, with a quiet indrawn breath, that this isn’t what _Seethlaw_ wanted. It’s not Seethlaw who’s being given another chance.

It’s Ringil himself.

But this is the Dark Queen he’s dealing with. Not only are the Dark Court’s gifts never free, but the dwenda and the demon gods are mortal enemies. There’s no reason why Firfirdar should want to save Seethlaw… except as a way to trap Ringil himself, once again. Her help in such a matter can only be offered with very heavy strings attached indeed.

Ringil’s voice rasps in his throat as he pushes the words out. “No blind deal. Name your price first.”

What will it be? What could the Dark Queen ask from him for such an unlikely favour? Would a human life for an Aldrain life be enough in her eyes? In that case, who would Ringil be asked to make pay for his own selfish wishes? Would he be able to accept—

No. Once again, he catches himself as the real question slams into his head.

His blood turns to ice when his gaze fastens on Seethlaw’s beautiful face, on the dark stream slipping from between the white lips, and he forces himself to face the truth: would he be able to _refuse_ Firfirdar’s offer?

How far gone is he? Is there _anyone_ he truly wouldn’t sacrifice to save Seethlaw? His mother? Archeth? Egar? Is there _anybody_ Firfirdar could ask for, right here, right now, and he _wouldn’t_ gladly give them away?

It terrifies him that _he doesn’t know!_

“My price, hm?” The Dark Queen is amused. It’s plain to hear in her voice, and just as plain to see on her face when Ringil tears his gaze away from Seethlaw to look at her again. She cocks her head, pins him with a stare which seems to reach straight into his soul. Vaguely, so vaguely, he wonders whether the compulsion protects his thoughts from her perusal as much as it did with Dakovash. How much can she see? How much can she know?

“Let’s see…” That cutting whisper again. “How much would you truly be willing to sacrifice to save your fabulous Aldrain lover, Ringil Eskiath? In such situations, humans always swear that no, there’s nothing, nothing I tell you, that they wouldn’t give. But then you ask for one tiny thing, and suddenly they are crying and begging, ha, no, please, everything but _that!_ Ask me anything, they say, but not that!”

She shakes her head. “What, pray tell, is even the _point_ of calling on us, then?”

Ringil stares back, steadily. He doesn’t bother pointing out that he never actually called on her or anyone, and that they both know it. He just waits. Somehow he knows he can afford it; somehow he knows Firfirdar will keep Seethlaw alive until they’ve reached an agreement - one way or another.

Her voice is almost gentle, her smile almost maternal, when she speaks again. “You would have me save the life of one of the Dark Court’s most annoying enemies.” Her touch is a caress as she trails her fingers down Seethlaw’s temple and jaw. “Such a thorn in our side he once was, this one. Such extreme measures we had to take to get rid of his influence.” Her hand moves to skirt the dagger’s hilt. “And he’s intent on making a bother of himself once more.”

Her gaze flicks back to Ringil. Burns right through his forehead to fill his skull with fire. “And yet you would have me save him?” Her voice, in contrast, is ice dripping down his spine. “Simply because you fancy yourself as being in love with him?”

And now she’s everywhere, so close even though she hasn’t moved, her presence twirling tightly around him, pressing down on him, blinding him, stopping the breath in his lungs. “Well, let’s see just how real that fancy of yours truly is, shall we?”

And gone.

Once again, she’s demurely kneeling opposite him, smile soft, voice friendly, innocent. “I wouldn’t ask for much. Only for that big bad sword of yours.”

Ringil blinks. Surely he’s misheard? “The Ravensfriend?” He can hear the incredulity in his voice. “You want the Ravensfriend?”

Firfirdar smiles impossibly sweetly. “Yes.” There’s just an edge of smug victory there and Ringil understands: she expects him to refuse. She thinks she’s asking for too much.

And…

His heart misses a beat, then jumps into his throat on the next one - because she’s right.

She’s _right._

It’s exactly as she said! _”In such situations, humans always swear that no, there’s nothing, nothing I tell you, that they wouldn’t give. But then you ask for one tiny thing, and suddenly they are crying and begging, ha, no, please, everything but _that!_ Ask me anything, they say, but not that.”_

It’s exactly like that, isn’t it? Somebody else’s life, yes, he would have given. A limb, years of his life, his health, all his earthly possessions: he wouldn’t even have hesitated!

But the Ravensfriend?

The Ravensfriend… The living sword forged for him by Grashgal himself. The sword named for him, as his curse and his blessing. The sword which is a part of his soul just as much as he’s a part of its own.

The Ravensfriend is not a _thing!_ The Ravensfriend cannot be dismissed, given, traded away! He could no more part with it than he could—

_Than you could part with a piece of your heart?_

Yes, that.

And yet… His gaze strays down, yet again, to the pale face of the dwenda dying in his arms. The Ravensfriend - or Seethlaw.

This is absurd. It doesn’t make any sense. He can no more abandon one than the other. He can’t…

He can’t! 

_I am Carry Me, and Kill with Me._ His own voice in his head and yet not, because he and the Ravensfriend are neither one nor separate.

 _I am Carry Me, and Kill with Me, and Die with Me where the Road Ends._ The Ravensfriend is all this, and they’ve done all those things together. They’ve even died together - where the road ended, indeed.

 _I am not the Honeyed Promise of Length of Life in Years to Come._ There’s sorrow now in this voice which is not entirely his, and an insistence he doesn’t quite understand. _I am the Iron Promise of Never Being a Slave._

The Iron Promise of Never Being a Slave… Risgillen, Atalmire, Lathkeen, and then Cormorion himself: they would have had Ringil spend the rest of his life bound within his own body, subjected to the Dark King’s will - but the Ravensfriend _could not_ allow that.

He remembers how he fought desperately against the Changeling for control over his own flesh, and for the freedom of his soul. He remembers how he so quickly lost, how Cormorion left him dying in the sand to witness the re-crowning of the last of the Dark Kings.

And then, at the very last moment, when Ringil had nothing left to give, the Ravensfriend stepped in - because it could not allow what was going to happen. Because it was in its very name since its forging: _I am the Iron Promise of Never Being a Slave._

How simply the Ravensfriend grabbed Cormorion then, and tore him to pieces. _I am the Iron Promise of Ringil Eskiath Never Being a Slave_ , and not even the ultimate magic of the Aldrain could come between the sword and its purpose.

And here it is again, whispering it in his head, but like a lament this time, and he doesn’t understand why, not yet, not quite yet… _I am not the Honeyed Promise of Length of Life in Years to Come, I am the Iron Promise of Never Being a Slave._

Die early, die fighting, never be a sl—

Ah.

And _now_ he sees it, and he wants to scream as the sudden pain of understanding skewers him.

A short life full of rage and death and violence - and pride, too: the pride of never bending his neck to someone else’s authority, someone else’s wishes. That was what he wanted in his previous life, so that was what Grashgal granted him. He was still a child when his father punished him, again and again, for the crime of not being the invisible, quietly obedient little thing a third son should be. He was barely more than a child, and so was Jelim, when they both learnt that society would never accept them, never tolerate the private things they did when they were alone. Jelim paid for that lesson with his life, and Ringil…

Ringil carried it with him everywhere he went from that day on, like some malevolent coat wrapped around him, around his heart and his mind and even his body. He carried it, but never submitted to it; he merely performed superficial obeisance to it, keeping his private business to those places where society didn’t look anyway, but never accepting to reject that part of him as everyone expected from him.

Did Grashgal read all of this in him when he forged the Ravensfriend? Or was it the sword itself, its infant soul, which picked up on this most desperate and defiant of desires? That will to reach for what he indistinctly knew he had a _right_ to, no matter what all his authority figures had always told him - and to die in his flesh in that pursuit if needs be, rather than dying inside by giving in… Not the honeyed promise of length of life in years to come, but only the iron promise of never being a slave, indeed: that was what he wanted in that life.

But it is _not_ what he wants in _this_ life anymore.

In this life, he wants time to build a new balance between the various people on the continent. In this life, he wants peace, not war. In this life, he wants diplomacy, and mutual discovery and understanding, and negotiations. And above all…

Above all…

His hand wraps around Seethlaw’s jaw, unheedful of the liquid warmth coating his palm in the process. Above all, in this life, he wants to make the dwenda now dying in his arms happy. That’s the deal he agreed to with that being on the dead battlefield, isn’t it? That he would make Seethlaw smile. That he would bust his arse to find an alternate way to grant Seethlaw his dream, somehow.

And so now he understands the sorrow in the Ravensfriend’s voice.

He understands that he cannot keep the Ravensfriend, he cannot continue to carry it on his back, and yet also hope to fulfil the mission he’s freely taken on. The Ravensfriend will not, _can not_ allow him to submit his will to Seethlaw’s dreams, to spend the rest of his life trying to achieve someone else’s goal - any more than it could allow Cormorion to sit on that throne.

In every life, in every world, the Ravensfriend will always eventually kill Seethlaw, and everyone to whom Ringil would submit, willingly or not, as surely as it did in his previous life.

And so the choice at hand - the Ravensfriend or Seethlaw - is not just a cruel choice imposed on him by Firfirdar. It is the choice which the Ravensfriend itself needs him to make.

 _Die with Me where the Road Ends._ A pleading now, seeping from every word in his head. _Do NOT die with me this time!_

This is why he came back: for a chance to change everything - but the Ravensfriend _cannot_ change, cannot be anything but what it was created to be.

The Ravensfriend, or Seethlaw.

He sees how he’d already made that choice, unknowingly but irreparably, before he even came back. Now it is simply a matter of acting on that decision, of tying a loose end he didn’t know was still dangling.

He raises his gaze, and keeps it fixed on the Dark Queen’s face, as he lifts his hand to the harness on his shoulder. He finds he feels a small but real and very savage spark of pleasure bursting to life deep in his chest at the sight of the disbelieving dismay which crosses the beautiful ill youth’s face when the scabbard comes free.

 _I will NOT be your cat’s paw!_ How many times will he have to repeat this, to them and to himself, before he manages to make it stick?

The renewed vow brings to his mind the memory of the lady Quilien of Gris, commenting on the Dark Court’s endless games, and staring at the Ravensfriend over his shoulder while asking, _“It must be difficult, after all, to give something up, when you are so very good at it. Don’t you think?”_

She was right. In his past life, he never would have given up on his fight, or on the Ravensfriend he needed to wage it. But in this life?

He almost wants to laugh, and cry at the same time. In this life, it’s Seethlaw he refuses to give up on, even if he’s been terrible at it so far, even if the only way he knows how to handle things, the way he was so good at - fighting, fighting again, fighting some more - doesn’t and won’t work here and now. It’s still Seethlaw he refuses to give up on anyway, even if it means that he will have to find alternatives, to half-blindly try new tactics, no matter how difficult and confusing it all might be.

It’s Seethlaw he won’t give up on; it’s Seethlaw he chooses, has chosen from the start. Seethlaw, not the Ravensfriend anymore.

Still, one doesn’t part with a piece of one’s soul so easily. His stomach fills with lead and ice, and he watches his arm move as though it were some stranger’s, and he doesn’t quite recognise his own hand when it offers the Ravensfriend’s scabbard to Firfirdar.

He feels cold, frozen even, somewhere deep inside, as she takes her payment, delicately picks the Ravensfriend from the ground where Ringil abandoned it during the fight, and sheathes it. It’s Grashgal’s personal gift to him which is slipping away from his touch, never to be his anymore, and he knows the grief of it will eat at him for a long time, possibly all his life - but there’s no _regret_ behind that grief, and for now, he will be contented with that.

The harness, the scabbard, and the sword disappear within the folds of the Dark Queen’s cloak, and Ringil has to hold Seethlaw’s body a little tighter to anchor himself against a yawning emptiness threatening to swallow him from the inside. The exchange is acted; now he must cling to what he chose, what he’s left with, and the transition from hard steel to cool body is as sweet and stomach-turning and head-spinning as one glass too many of Yhelteth’s finest summer wines.

Everything in him is reeling as he watches Firfirdar’s hands move to Seethlaw’s chest and face again. One tug, and the dragon tooth dagger jerks free. The pallid, sickly fingers settle over the wound, grow dark with all the blood gushing ever more eagerly out of it now. So much blood… There’s _so much fucking blood,_ and the observation kicks Ringil in the guts and doesn’t help in the least with his growing nausea.

But then—

He blinks. A flicker of warmth trembles to life deep in his heart.

The flow slows down.

Stops.

Firfirdar’s fingers flutter, and they are clean again. Her other hand settles firmly over Seethlaw’s forehead, in a manner eerily reminiscent of what the dwenda once did to Ringil himself. He had robbed him of his strength then, and then of his consciousness altogether. Judging by the tremor which runs through Seethlaw’s body, however, it appears the Dark Queen is doing more or less the exact opposite.

The tiny, fragile flame in Ringil’s chest erupts into a wildfire when the ragged, wet breaths turn smooth and clear, and no more dark bubbles appear at the corner of the white lips.

“He will live.” Firfirdar doesn’t seem particularly satisfied with her handiwork. She’s almost scowling when Ringil looks back at her.

And then suddenly she grins - wolfish, hungry, nothing comforting in it at all. “You, however,” and _now_ she seems eager, almost excited, “had better hope they don’t kill you on sight.”

He doesn’t have time to ask what she means, doesn’t even have time to blink.

From one breath to the next, he’s left the gardens of Grace-of-Heaven’s house on Replete Cargo Street in Trelayne, and he’s kneeling, still cradling Seethlaw’s bloody, unconscious body, on smooth, pale pavement, under another night sky full of stars - spread out like courtiers around the round, blotched face of the Moon.

**


	18. Ringil

There’s a shrill shout behind him - a sound Ringil has come to recognise only too well over the last two years: an Aldrain alarm call…

His heart races up as his mind and body go straight back into fighting mode, but he barely has time to turn his head around that he feels the bite of a blade against his throat. He freezes, chest pounding, and looks up slowly.

Blue-edged, impossibly thin longsword, held in a bone-white hand. Slim legs in that skin-tight leather-like mail armour. Narrow hips and broad shoulders. And - a burst of relief in Ringil’s guts, even if the dwenda is scowling - the one face he could hope to see in this situation.

“Hey, Pel.”

He can hear how his voice has gone raspy and shaky, and he feels the Aldrain steel dig into his throat with each word he speaks, but he’s still alive and he’s going to take that as a good sign.

… Though he quickly revises that opinion when another dwenda rushes like a blur by Pelmarag’s shoulder and kneels opposite Ringil. The mask of mixed terror and rage on Risgillen’s face is not one that presages immediate continued life and full health for Ringil…

He keeps himself perfectly still while she reaches for her brother’s body, pulls it to herself, checks frantically for his pulse, his breath.

“She said he’d live.” His tone is as calm and quiet as he can manage, but it still seems far too loud in the deadly silence surrounding the four - no, five now, Ashgrin standing like a ghost besides Pelmarag - of them, broken only by Risgillen’s short, panicked gasps.

She looks up at him, teeth lengthening already, and he represses a shiver at the memory of a pain she doesn’t know she inflicted on him in another life. “What? Who!?” Her voice is a snarl; if it could tear Ringil’s throat out on its own, it probably would.

“Firfirdar.”

Her empty eyes, narrowed in anger and suspicion, grow wide with shock. The blade against Ringil’s throat shivers.

“The Ahn Foi?” Her teeth have returned to normal now. “What do _they_ have to do with this?”

Ringil hesitates, shrugs minutely. “She saved his life.” And as an afterthought, “And transported us here, I suppose.”

Risgillen just stares at him. Now that she’s made sure for herself that her brother is indeed not about to die, she seems too lost and confused to do anything but cling to his body so tightly that Ringil vaguely wonders if Seethlaw can still even breathe like that.

It’s Ashgrin’s dispassionate voice which breaks the silence this time, in his usual clipped manner. “Explain.”

Ringil looks down at Seethlaw’s pale face on Risgillen’s shoulder. How is he supposed to relate what happened in a way that would make any sense…?

He sighs, closes his eyes. Keeps his tone as cool and firm as he can manage. “Back in Ennishmin, I made him promise to come and see me in Trelayne. I wanted to _talk_ to him, but apparently there was a misunderstanding somewhere. He showed up to _fight,_ didn’t give me a chance to explain…” He stumbles, not sure how to go from there.

“And so you tried to kill him,” Risgillen concludes for him. There’s too much fear and hurt in her voice for Ringil to bother pointing out how unfair it is to lay this disaster at his feet.

Instead, he shakes his head, feels a sting bloom on his throat where Pelmarag’s sword is still holding strong. “No, I didn’t. I tried to disarm him, and I managed it, too.” He swallows; this is the part that’s going to make his case or break it. “But it was quite obvious that he _wanted_ me to kill him instead.”

With his eyes still closed, the sudden, seemingly absolute silence that follows his words sends a jolt of vertigo through him. He buries a hand into his thigh and grips tight, to keep himself from swaying. The pain helps him focus, helps him wait for the verdict.

“And then what?” Ashgrin is the one to speak up once again. Ringil can’t read anything in his too-calm voice, can’t tell whether the dwenda believes him or not.

All he can do is keep going, so he briefly clenches his jaw and takes a breath. Eyes still resolutely closed, because it’s so much easier to keep his wits about him if he doesn’t have to face Seethlaw’s bloody body and Risgillen’s distressed face - _your own fault, Gil, all of it, all over again_ \- he raises his free hand and vaguely gestures in a back-and-forth movement between him and where Pelmarag is standing. “We ended up in a situation very much like this one, except I was the one holding the sword.”

The blade shudders once more against his skin, and a hiss escapes Risgillen.

Ringil plunges ahead, doggedly. “But I misjudged. I wasn’t careful enough. I forgot that he knew about the dagger I always keep in my sleeve. He…” Ringil swallows, but his throat is dry suddenly. “He went for it. I tried to deflect with the sword.” A heartbeat. “I failed.”

There.

It’s done. They have the story. He can’t make them believe it; let them do with it and with him as they wish.

He can finally open his eyes, rest his gaze on Seethlaw’s unconscious face. Risgillen is still cradling him tight against her chest with an arm around his back. She’s lowered her forehead against his, blocking her face from Ringil’s view entirely. Her free hand is cupping her brother’s jaw. Her shoulders are trembling.

And Ringil finds himself biting on his tongue to hold the words back.

_I’m sorry._

How many times has he told her that, in his previous life? She never reacted well to it, either; it didn’t matter how honestly he meant it - and he understands that. He understands that it _couldn’t_ matter. _”Sorry? You’re sorry? You took my brother from me.”_ That’s not something you can just apologise for.

It’s certainly not something you can ever properly atone for, either, even if Risgillen did try to have her revenge anyway. Ringil cheated her of it, but he doubts it would have satisfied her in the end. It wouldn’t have brought Seethlaw back to her. _”He’s out there, you know that? Seethlaw is out there, in the Grey Places. Lost, I hear him_ howling, _I hear…”_ She was crying, the one and only time Ringil ever saw her so broken… _”You still don’t understand what you’ve done,”_ she’d asked on a whisper, _“do you?”_

And as the human that he was, he lied to her then, pretended that he didn’t care, pretended that his heart wasn’t just as shattered and weeping as hers was. He rejected her pain, because accepting it would have meant acknowledging his own, and the crushing guilt that always came with it, and that was not something he could ever imagine being able to do. So he lied - to her, to himself, to everyone.

Then again, so did she, in her own way. Having Egar killed, having Ringil tortured forever in the Grey Places, re-building the empire Seethlaw had dreamt of - _”We will carve out a new Aldrain realm, and it will have Seethlaw’s name on it,”_ and Ringil, in the depths of his agony, had still _choked_ on that reminder of what, who, they had both lost - even resuscitating Cormorion through Ringil’s flesh… None of this would have accomplished what she truly wanted.

_Nothing_ anybody could have done could have changed the past in the one way she so desperately needed.

Nothing could have given her back what Ringil had stolen from her, and after she had specifically warned him against that, too. _”You are not the first. This we have seen before. This I have done myself, with mortal men and women. But I do not lose myself as my brother can. Clearly, I see. So I tell you this. Do not doubt; if you bring hurt or harm upon my brother, I will fuck you up.”_

She’d seen it coming. From the moment she’d met Ringil, she’d seen the danger he represented, and tried to deflect it - to no avail. And so, he’d told her, _”I’m sorry, Risgillen. I don’t think you have any idea how sorry I am. It didn’t end the way I planned.”_ Words - useless words, empty words, that could never have the power to heal the eternal wound Ringil had inflicted on her heart.

He swallows. There are more, different words coming to him now, and even though he can’t ever speak them aloud, they burn through his mind so strongly that he wonders if she might not hear them anyway.

_It won’t be the same this time, Risgillen, I swear it. If I have any say in the matter, it won’t be the same this time around - not for Seethlaw, not for me, and not for you. I promise._

And he’s not even lying, either… 

“And the Ahn Foi? How do they factor into this?” Pelmarag’s voice cuts through Ringil’s thoughts, brutally reminds him that before he can hope to change anyone’s future for the better, he first needs to save his own skin, right here and now, convince the dwenda to let him go unharmed. He does note that Pelmarag sounds more confused than sceptical, but he won’t be foolish enough as to take that as an assurance of anything.

“Firfirdar… Ugh.” He can’t help but grunt in anger as he remembers. He doesn’t hide the bitterness that floods him when he explains, “She took advantage of a technicality to offer me a deal she thought I would refuse. I’m still not sure exactly why - beyond having some fun at my expense, I mean.”

He can feel a befuddled questioning silently rising into the air around him. He shrugs. “You know how it is when you’re confronted with a bad situation, right? You go all, ‘no no, please, gods, no!’” He frowns as a thought hits him. “Or, well, I guess _you_ guys don’t, but we humans do it all the time, even those of us who don’t actually worship any gods. It’s just an ingrained habit from childhood.”

He takes a deep breath. “So anyway. I wasn’t _actually_ praying to the Dark Court for help, but I said the words all the same, and she took that as an excuse to intervene. And then she--” He has to pause for a moment, as a coil of sour fire burns through him at the recollection of how Firfirdar mocked him, laughed at his grief, his pain, even as she dangled a miraculous rescue from it all right under his nose…

“What do you mean, she offered you a deal she thought you would refuse?” Pelmarag’s voice again, as carefully measured as his hold on the blade still poised against Ringil’s throat. He _wants_ to believe, Ringil realises; he _wants_ to be convinced. Ringil takes that thread of hope, wraps it close to him, starts talking again.

“Oh, that’s easy. She offered to save—” His voice unexpectedly trips over the name. He swallows, tight and dry. “She offered to save his life, in exchange for something she was sure I would never agree to.”

“And what would that be?”

“She asked for my sword.” He’s not sure any of the dwenda will—

“Your Black Folk sword!?” Pelmarag does, apparently.

“Yes. And for the record, it was made especially for me by Grashgal the Wanderer himself.” If they know anything about their most feared enemies, then this name should ring a bell.

There’s a pause. A glance up at Ashgrin reveals nothing there, as usual. And then there’s Pelmarag, his hand firm on the hilt of his sword, his brow furrowed and his jaw tight…

His voice unnaturally flat as he finally asks, “And you agreed?”

Ringil stares straight into the inky eyes. It’s his turn to keep his tone as light and neutral as he can, even as he rips his soul open in the most absolute way, leaves himself vulnerable in a manner which makes the sword on his throat look like a joke, and his helplessness in the face of the anger and hatred of three immortal warriors seem like a mere children’s dispute.

“For Seethlaw’s life?” The name comes so easily this time... “I don’t know if there’s anything she could have asked for, that I wouldn’t have gladly given her.”

He winces when Pelmarag physically recoils and the Aldrain blade scrapes up his neck and briefly catches on his jaw. Thin burning under his chin; looks like he’s been lucky and got away with no more than a superficial cut.

It was entirely worth it, though, just to see that look of complete shock on both Pelmarag’s and Ashgrin’s faces.

But then there’s a blur in the air, and next thing he knows, Ashgrin has grabbed him by the jaw, pulled it up, and is staring straight down at him. The full weight of his empty gaze drills into Ringil, until he can’t even summon so much as a word of complaint or protest when a white hand reaches for his forehead, palm first, and slams into it.

… It’s like being thrown into the sea during a storm. He gasps as wave after wave of dark water images rise in his memory, swell over and crash down onto him, steal his breath away each time, leave him floundering for something, anything, to hold onto.

He can’t even identify the scenes he sees; they pass by him too fast for him to glean more than random details and blurry shapes, sounds which he can’t resolve into voices or anything else without their proper context, and emotions, and sensations, too many, too sharp, too quickly discarded for him to even begin to understand them.

Somewhere, very vaguely, he’s aware that Ashgrin is _looking_ for something, but he’s too disoriented to remember what it might be, to try to help…

— And then it’s there, right there, painfully crisp and vivid, blinding Ringil with the sheer seeming reality of it, even though he _knows_ it’s only a memory!

He cries out, alarm ringing once more throughout his body, as Seethlaw reaches into his sleeve, dislodges the hidden dagger and - _no, not again_ \- grasps it, pulls it to himself - _please no, stop it, not again, please!_ \- and the Aldrain longsword is bearing down, but Ringil sobs, because it’s too late, _too late,_ and he knows it, and _no please, not again, don’t fucking make me watch this again!_

… After that, he doesn’t care about the random snatches of Firfirdar’s words and sneers and taunts. What does it all matter? None of it matters, when compared to the dagger, and the too-late sword - and Seethlaw’s closed eyes and bloody lips…

He doesn’t notice when it all stops. He just vaguely perceives that he’s on the cold ground now, rolled up into himself on his side. His throat and his chest hurt. There’s a hot trail of tears down his cheeks, over and along his nose.

And still none of this matters, because behind his closed eyelids, that one memory burns as bright as ever - his own dragon tooth dagger, embedding itself into Seethlaw’s chest…

He hears voices, can’t even tell which language they are speaking. When he tries to open his eyes, his eyelids weigh a ton each; he gives up. His hands are numb. He can’t feel his legs. He vaguely tries to speak, to call out for help or for… anything really, but his throat refuses to work, his lips merely flutter around empty sounds.

The last thing he remembers is a cool hand gently brushing a stray strand of his hair back behind his ear - and then he’s gone.

** 

He wakes up slowly.

His body aches, and not in a good way. His muscles protest as he turns around in the bed, but it’s a strange feeling. They don’t scream like when he’s over-exerted himself, and it’s not the nausea of a morning after too much flandrijn either. It’s more like… like… like his limbs don’t quite believe they belong to his body, and won’t let his brain order them around?

“Take it slow.” A jolt of alarm tries to run through his system at the sound of the quiet voice, but like everything else, it’s sluggish, and ultimately ineffective. “It will take a while for your body and mind to adjust. Don’t push it; it won’t help.” Pelmarag, sounding almost… apologetic?

Huh. Ringil wants to wonder what Pelmarag might be feeling sorry for, but his thoughts are thick and slow as molasses, so instead he just focuses on opening his eyes.

… He doesn’t recognise the ceiling.

He doesn’t even recognise it _as_ a ceiling. He’s seen all kinds of ceilings in his life: flat ones, rounded ones, tented ones… Ceilings made of stone, wood, fabric, and a whole lot of other things… Painted ceilings, carved ceilings, plain ceilings, you name it, he’s seen it.

But this? This is not a ceiling.

This is a tree canopy, if leaves were made of light. It’s the sun glinting through heavy-laden branches in the deepest grip of summer when Ringil was still a child, spending holidays in Lanatray with his mother, climbing as high as he could and lying down on the last tree-limb strong enough to support his weight - and staring up, up, until the light made his eyes water, and he couldn’t distinguish anymore the real leaves and fruits and thin, gracile branches up there, from their many, confusing, mixed shadows.

It’s all that and more, except he’s not in a tree.

He’s in a bed, and not in a bed that would somehow have been transported up a tree either. There’s no wind here, and none of the constant murmur of a tree’s foliage. He blinks. Resists the temptation to shake his head. Tries instead to turn it around - slowly, carefully - towards where he heard Pelmarag’s voice coming from.

The dwenda is there all right, perched on a wooden, high-backed chair, with his feet pulled onto the seat, his arms wrapped around his knees, and his chin digging into his forearm. He’s looking at Ringil with tired eyes - very tired eyes, in fact, and… Huh.

Ringil frowns. Pelmarag looks like a right mess. The dwenda’s white skin doesn’t mark like human skin does, so there are no shadows under the empty eyes, but there’s a definite tightness around them, and around the mouth, and, and… Ringil can’t focus enough to identify them, but there are other signs there, signs that something is wrong, very wrong, and now _this_ manages to ring an alarm bell deep in his mind that won’t go away this time.

“What’s the matter?” The words blurt out of him before he’s decided to say them, as though his body isn’t quite synchronised with his brain anymore.

Pelmarag’s eyes briefly widen in surprise, before he sighs and looks away and seems to curl even more tightly on himself - and oh yes, _this_ is another thing that’s wrong. Since when does Pelmarag hold himself in such a defencive posture around Ringil? Ringil has seen Seethlaw do that, yes, but—

A blink.

Seethlaw.

Seethlaw Seethlaw Seethlaw. Something about Seethlaw, but _what?_

What, dammit!?

His mouth does that thing again where it asks a question before he’s had time to formulate it. “Where’s Seethlaw?” After all, if any dwenda should be baby-sitting Ringil - not that Ringil can even figure out _why_ he needs baby-sitting in the first place, but that’s a question for another time - then it should be Seethlaw.

Pelmarag just looks back at him, and doesn’t answer this question any more than he answered the previous one.

Ringil wants to groan. Instead, he grumbles, “Is there _anything_ I can ask that you might be willing to answer?”

Pelmarag huffs. His voice is brittle with tiredness and irritation when he finally speaks again. “Yes, he will live. No, he hasn’t woken up yet. Yes, we believe your story. Yes, we can take you home if you want. No, we won’t throw you out if you prefer to stay for now. As I already told you, yes, it’s going to take some time for you to adjust if you decide to stay. No, we’d rather you didn’t leave this room for now.” A pause. “And yes, I can bring you some food if you’re hungry.”

Ringil stares. That’s _far_ more information than his brain can process at the moment.

Pelmarag drops his forehead onto his knees. Takes a deep breath. Unwinds and pushes himself out of the chair - and even in his obvious state of exhaustion, he still looks like a dancer as he stands up in an impossibly graceful move. Somewhere deep in the back of Ringil’s mind, a small resentful voice can’t help but argue that this is just _not fucking fair!_

“Looks like you need some more time. Try to sleep if you can. I’ll go and get you something to eat.”

And then he’s out of the room, even though Ringil hasn’t seen any door open or close. He can just see a tall, narrow patch on the wall that looks like it should be a door, but he would swear that it didn’t move or change in any way.

Oh well. He shrugs mentally and turns his head to the other side, where he sees… outside. He doesn’t see _windows;_ he sees _right fucking outside._ Where there should be a wall with windows in it, there’s nothing. Nothing that he can see anyway, though he guesses that there must be something after all, because there’s no wind in the room, not even the sound of it.

So, yeah, a window, of some sort - if windows could go from floor to ceiling and from wall to wall without any apparent support system, and if they could be made of what looks like, well, empty air.

All right, whatever. _Look, Gil, ceilings that don’t look like ceilings, doors that don’t look like doors, or windows that don’t look like windows: none of this is any better or worse than bridges made of light, is it? If you’re going to insist on living among the dwenda, you better get used to that kind of shit. You did it back in An-Monal when you lived with the Kiriath; you can do it again here_ … Though admittedly, roaming the depths of the volcano never gave him _that_ sort of full-body ache, but he dismisses that pointless concern with another mental shrug. He’ll have to take Pelmarag’s word on it that time should fix that issue.

Meanwhile, beyond the invisible window, Ringil can see something he very much likes, and never could have dreamt of in An-Monal: masses of dark clouds, and below them, unmistakable even in these fucked-up circumstances, the shimmer of the sea. It’s not blue here, not with that grey, roiling sky hanging overhead, but it’s the sea all the same, and Ringil has always loved the sea: the sting of the spray on his face, the embrace of the waves, the rushing sounds of the surf, and the smell and taste of it all, oh, the smell and taste of salt and seaweeds and fish!

From here and in his miserable state, he can only _look_ at the sea outside, but that’s still infinitely better than being stuck staring at blank walls. So he gratefully settles on his side as comfortably as he can, and loses himself in the contemplation of the regular, unchanging yet forever renewed, glimmering pattern of the waves. As always, it soothes the confusion in his mind, whispers to him that everything will be all right, somehow, _just wait and see_ …

He smiles faintly as his eyelids droop, and his mind peacefully blanks out once more.

** 

He’s alone, and far more alert, when he wakes up again.

The first thing he notices is that it’s night time. The room is dark, illuminated only by the thin silver light of the Moon, so much weaker than the band’s. Granted, it doesn’t help either that the poor little dying sun is half-hidden by fast-running clouds. Still, that’s enough light for Ringil to orientate himself by. Tentatively, he tries to push himself upright - and is immensely relieved when this time, his muscles obey him. He sits up, and takes a better look around him.

The bed is large enough for two people to sleep at ease in it. The linen are thick and well-worn soft; the cover on top of them is heavy and warm. He can see that there are patterns woven into it, but he can’t properly make them out in this faint light; it will have to wait until morning. The relative darkness also renders it impossible to properly distinguish the masses of objects stuffed all over the room: there’s furniture in there, but he can also make out the outlines of piles of books and sculpted pieces here and there, and rugs on the floor and painting on the walls.

Gingerly, he throws his legs over the side of the bed and tries to stand up. He’s a _little_ unstable on his feet, and he certainly wouldn’t run anywhere nor fight anyone, but he can walk around. His boots are waiting for him at the foot of the bed. He pulls them on and takes a few steps. He’s still feeling somewhat… disjointed, but he won’t fall over. That’ll do, for now at least.

His first priority is to check out those damn windows. He comes close enough to touch them and tentatively reaches out. The sensation of his fingers meeting something his eyes can’t see is unnerving. At least, though, he’s now reassured that there’s indeed some kind of actual material there; it might even be glass, from the smooth and cool feel of it. It would be glass treated not to give back any reflection, and obviously glass considered strong enough to be safely used in such a way, but glass nonetheless. That part is comforting.

The view beyond the glass, however, is very much not.

From what he could see from the bed, Ringil had already deduced that the place he’s in must be situated quite high above the sea; he’d imagined a house on top of a cliff maybe. And he’s half-right, as he can determine when he takes the last step up to the window, presses his forehead against it, and looks down: there’s a cliff indeed - with the wall of it dropping right from the floor of the room, for many dizzying dozen yards, all the way to a small beach below, nestled between endless outcrops of dark, wet rock.

The place is not built _on_ a cliff. It’s carved straight _into_ a cliff.

This is a concept Ringil is not entirely unfamiliar with. Deep in the southern deserts of the Empire, there are rocky defiles where the local tribes have taken to digging their homes and temples from the stone itself. It makes for rooms that keep remarkably cool despite the sweltering heat outside - and for truly spectacular views over the canyons, too.

And so it is here as well. With his nose to the window, Ringil can’t see the walls of the room anymore. He can’t even see the narrow shore below him. All he can see are the vast expanses of the sky and the sea, endlessly mirroring each other, angry clouds chasing one another above just as raging waves do below, all of them in turn bleakly illuminated or thrown into deep darkness, in the mist of this chaotic and everlasting fight between the silvery light of the Moon, the smother of the night, and the swift ride of the clouds…

A twist in his belly is what pulls him out of his awed trance. His body is waking up, and remembering that it has been an indefinite but certain while since he’s eaten anything.

There’s a tray covered with a large white cloth, on a desk pushed against the window next to him. He peeks at it, and this time, his stomach rumbles at the sight: bread, cheese, wine, some fruit he doesn’t recognise… It all looks rather mundane, until he starts eating it —

\-- And then he remembers, as the food melts on his tongue. One mouthful, and he’s back in the Grey Places with… An iron fist clamps around his guts. He chokes on a piece of bread, has to spit it out.

_Seethlaw!_

He remembers now; he remembers everything!

He turns around, heads for what he figures must be the door. There’s a note pinned to it - though pinned _how,_ he couldn’t say. _Probably the same kind of magic which held Seethlaw’s armour up on the wall, back in that place under Trelayne…_ He takes the piece of paper in his hand, and it detaches itself from the door. He spins and goes back to the window to catch enough Moon-light to read it by.

The handwriting is tight, impossibly elegant, and rather old-fashioned. Ringil easily imagines how some of his childhood tutors would have swooned at the sight of it.

_The following list of oral instructions should work:_  
_\- Light on;_  
 _\- Light off;_  
 _\- Water on;_  
 _\- Water off;_  
 _\- Warmer;_  
 _\- Colder;_  
 _\- Dispose._  
 _The aspect of the window can be changed to wood or stone. Touch it and name your choice._  
 _Note down any other commands or options you may wish to use._  
 _He still hasn’t woken up. You will be kept informed of any further development which should arise._  
 _You may not leave these rooms. Feel free to touch or use anything within them._  
 _I will come again in the morning. I will take you back to your world if you so desire._

It’s not signed. It doesn’t need to be.

Ringil clears his throat. He feels just a tad foolish, but he’s done far more embarrassing things in his life than speak to an empty room.

“Light on?”

Light on. Light everywhere, oozing ever so softly from the ceiling and the walls and the floor, like a cool and clear early morning sun filtered through the most delicate of muslin drapes.

Ringil gapes for a moment, then shakes himself. Light: done. Next step: getting out of here and finding Seethlaw. The note says that he “may not leave these rooms”, but surely nobody expects him to just comply? Once again, he strides to the discoloured, arch-shaped patch on the wall that apparently passes as a door.

… There’s no handle.

No handle, no latch, no lever. No mechanism of any kind. He tries pushing through, pushing on either side, feeling the edges and the wall around them for any sort of clue… He finds nothing. _Damn._

Maybe… Hesitantly, keeping his hand pushing against the narrow arch, he opens his mouth. “Open door?” … Nothing. What about, “Door: open!” There’s still no change, neither in the appearance nor in the consistency of the wall. _Good try, Gil, but no dice._ He sighs. He can recognise a prison cell, no matter how luxurious, when he’s shoved into one. He’s not getting out of here until someone lets him. _Shit._

Dejectedly, he returns to the desk, and re-reads Pelmarag’s note. _”He still hasn’t woken up. You will be kept informed of any further development which should arise.”_ He swallows, hard. Forces himself to take a deep breath. His hands shake as Seethlaw’s face floats in front of his mind’s eye - deep black eyes closed, bloody froth slipping from the corner of his lips…

_Stop that, Gil. It won’t help._ He tries to focus instead on the bits of memories from when Pelmarag was here. What was it he said? _”Yes, he will live… Yes, we believe your story… No, we don’t mind if you prefer to stay…”_

Ringil can stay. He can wait for Seethlaw to wake up. _Good enough for now, Gil. Good enough for now._

 


	19. Ringil

Ringil throws the note back onto the desk. His gaze briefly strays to the platter of food, but despite the renewed grumbling in his stomach, he can’t bring himself to touch it again. _It’s not like you can’t afford to lose some weight anyway…_

He can feel a sour, self-pitying mood coming on. That won’t do him any good, so he scowls and squashes it down. His time would be better spent checking the place out; maybe he’ll even find another way to escape it? That’s highly unlikely, but as futile as it is, that’s still a far more useful endeavour than just standing around moping.

With the lights on, he can now take a good look at his surroundings. His initial impression of clutter is immediately confirmed. Besides the wooden desk pushed all the way against the window, there’s a whole assortment of furniture in there! Though… Well now, that’s weird. Ringil doesn’t quite know what to think as he considers the disparate cabinets and chairs, and the mismatched bookcases and armchairs at the other end of the room from the bed. At a glance, the ensemble looks very much like some hoarding antiquarian’s collection, down to the fact that some pieces are delicately carved and ornately embellished, while some others seem so crude as to be almost unfinished.

They are also, Ringil notices with interest, all without exception from human origin. Some of them, Ringil can more or less guess which tribe or civilisation they originate from, even if for the most part he can’t. Still, the fact remains that nothing here looks even remotely Aldrain or Kiriath, but only very much human…

The elements of decoration follow the same apparent lack of pattern as the furniture. Whether it’s the sculptures and other knick-knacks, the rugs on the floor or the paintings on the walls, there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme nor reason to their choosing and assembling together. They come in all sizes and shapes and materials, from all geographical origins and all historical eras, and they are displayed as though some bizarrely meticulous tornado had gathered them all and then carefully dropped them wherever.

Ringil would wonder if this is a guest room haphazardly and hurriedly put together from whatever furniture could be found lying around some old attic, if it wasn’t for the persistent, profound feeling of the room being _lived in_ which pours into him ever more strongly as he looks around and around, and drinks in more details with each inspection

In the end, he decides, it’s the books that do it. He’s seen archives, where books are deliberately piled in more or less neat and organised stacks, and he’s seen the offices of book lovers, where more and more books keep being added to teetering mounds and heaps on every available surface - and this room definitely, undoubtedly, glaringly belongs to the latter category.

There are the half-dozen books bundled on top of each other right here in one corner of the desk, and the messy pile of parchments in the opposite corner. There are the overflowing shelves of the bookcases, and the extra volumes shoved on top of them. Everywhere he looks, there are books and rolls stowed away: towering piles on top of every single one of the cabinets and chairs - except for the one Pelmarag was sitting on earlier, but would you look at that, there’s a pile of books _under_ it instead, no prize for guessing when it got there - a gnarly stack which seems one breath away from crumbling in one of the armchairs, and, of course, another pile on the floor on one side of the bed.

Whoever lives here loves books and collecting old stuff - which basically, Ringil realises with a soft amused huff, makes them Shalak’s Aldrain counterpart. _Now, that would be an interesting meeting to witness…_

And then his heart jumps into his throat and he forgets all about this as he notices another patch-like door on the far wall of the room, between two bookcases. His legs are just a little unsteady as he rushes to it, even though he knows - he _knows_ \- that it can’t be that simple. This door will be just as closed as the other one, or—

His hand slides right through it when he tries to touch it.

It doesn’t even feel like anything. If Ringil’s eyes didn’t confirm that there’s something there, and didn’t see his arm seemingly cut off at the wrist, he wouldn’t even know anything is happening.

He swallows, pulls his hand back, examines it, back and front. Finds nothing. Takes a deep, calming breath. _All right, then…_ He squares his shoulders and steps decisively through the arch of discoloured wall.

The light comes on its own in the large round - seemingly attached to the floor is a mystery. Another curved cabinet, complete with its three round hollows and its series of small hand-towels, lines one part of the wall. There is, however and thankfully, no mirror this time.

Ringil eyes the supposed chamberpot with suspicion. His bladder could do with some emptying, but…

_What’s the worse that can happen?_

He shrugs. He once lay in his blood and piss for hours to evade the Lizards. He can handle this. He goes for the laces on his breeches… and that’s when he finally notices what he’s wearing.

It didn’t strike him as odd before because it’s, well, his own clothes - except cleaned and mended. Or rather… No, not mended. He takes a closer look at where he _knows_ Seethlaw tagged him high on the chest, and there’s _nothing_ there, not even the thinnest line to show where the fabric was sewn back together.

He blinks. _Magic. They fucking use magic even on clothes._

He supposes it makes sense, now that he thinks about it: why go for an inferior result through manual means, when you can do so much better with magic? He remembers Seethlaw telling him that _”the superiority is evident”_ ; he can’t really deny it right now… While he’s at it, he opens his shirt and checks the skin underneath. At this point, he’s not overly surprised to find, once again, nothing at all, not even a patch of pink skin. _Yep, figures._

So he’s been healed and washed. His clothes were repaired and cleaned. And also… He’s being fed well, and kept up-to-date as to Seethlaw’s condition. He’s apparently occupying someone’s private apartments, where he can rest and take his time to adapt to this world in peace; the place has even been modified to obey his orders to compensate for the fact that he has no magic of his own.

He sighs.

 _Be fair, Gil. This isn’t a jail cell. It’s frustrating to be fenced in like this, yes, but they just want you out of their hair while they sort the situation out. You can’t really blame them for that, can you?_ Not to mention that it likely goes both ways: he’s confined here, but in exchange some other people - by which he mostly means Risgillen - have probably agreed to leave him alone, which he can’t deny is arguably the best outcome for his health and safety, at least in the short term.

 _So just give it time, will you? Time for yourself, and for them. You guys are all in this together._ Which is, he realises with a bemused shock, pretty much exactly what he’s been working towards for all these weeks, isn’t it? This wasn’t how he pictured it happening, for sure, but at least he’s in the same world and place as Seethlaw, and everybody is still alive for now. He’s turned worse situations around; he can handle this! 

Pulling himself together, he finishes to unlace his breeches and takes a piss before he has any time to second-guess himself again. He then spends a few moments staring at the puddle at the bottom of the pot, until the list of instructions comes back to his mind. There’s one that might apply…

“Dispose?”

He watches, mesmerised, as the same kind of patch the doors are made of briefly covers the pot. When it disappears, the bowl is empty again and sparkling clean.

Shaking his head in wonder, he turns towards the washbasin. This time, he doesn’t even hesitate before speaking. “Water on.” Two jets of water spout from invisible holes on the rim of the basin, rising about a hand-width into the air, before falling back in a graceful spray into the hollow. Ringil is oddly reminded of some of the Kiriath fountains at An-Monal. Seethlaw once told him that humanity would come to resemble the Kiriath in time, but from where Ringil is standing, the Aldrain are themselves not so different from the Kiriath after all…

He grabs one of the iridescent stones and runs it under the water. He’d been right in assuming they were soap, as it instantly produces a layer of soft, creamy, lightly-spiced lather. He drops it back into its container, scrubs his hands, rinses them. “Water off.”

He reaches for one of the towels attached through no visible means to the wall. Predictably enough, it’s stupidly fluffy to the touch and ridiculously efficient. In a matter of moments, Ringil’s hands are dry, his skin smooth and fresh. He’s briefly at a loss as to what to do with the towel, until another one simply pops into place on the wall to replace it. _Oh... Okay then._ He drops the towel into the empty hollow. “Dispose.” Just as with the chamberpot, a door-like patch briefly covers the hollow, and the towel is gone when it disappears.

Magic applied to the most mundane of tasks. Why did _he_ never think of that!?

**

An hour later, maybe two, finds him sitting on the floor at the foot of the window in the bedroom, cross-legged, with a blanket wrapped around him, and a book in his lap. It’s open, but he’s not reading it; instead, he’s watching the light of the rising sun creep slowly far over the sea, from behind the cliff.

He glances up, confused, when a soft chime rings through the air. It’s only when a second one follows that he understands.

“Come in!” He’s looking at the door this time, and watches as Pelmarag simply walks right through it, like Ringil did with the bathroom door. “How did you know I was awake?” he can’t help wondering.

Pelmarag smiles thinly. He has the look of someone who went through the motions of washing themselves and changing their clothes - in a manner of speaking, since he’s still wearing the same eternal armour Ringil has only ever seen most dwenda wear - but didn’t get the sleep they most desperately needed. “I didn’t. I would have invited myself in after this if you hadn’t answered.”

Ringil scowls when Pelmarag stops in his tracks, takes in the sight of the barely-touched tray of food, and frowns. “Let’s make a deal,” he says tartly. “I won’t ask why you didn’t sleep if you don’t ask why I didn’t eat.”

The dwenda looks at him for a minute, face unreadable for once, except for the exhaustion etched all over it. Then he shrugs and ambles over to sit himself down next to Ringil. Ringil waits a few moments, but when nothing seems to be forthcoming, he goes back to losing himself in the endless shimmering of the sea.

It’s not that he doesn’t have questions. He does, so many of them! But now is really not the time. As antsy as he might feel, caution still manages to edge his impatience out, even if only barely. He and Pelmarag are both tired and anxious, and from what Ringil has seen, the dwenda may well hide a temper similar to his own under that gregarious appearance. The last thing Ringil wants to achieve right now is antagonising the only seeming ally he has in the place. The questions can wait.

How long they sit like this, he doesn’t know and doesn’t care. As far as company during bad times goes, he could do a lot worse than the usually not-so-quiet dwenda. Pelmarag’s voice is so soft when he finally speaks that it pulls Ringil out of his meditative contemplation without jolting him. “I take it you don’t want to go home, then?”

 _Home? … What home?_ “No.” And then, because he would really rather make absolutely sure, “If that’s all right with you - _all_ of you.”

Pelmarag shrugs. “You wouldn’t be here if any of us had any true objection to your presence.”

“Not even…” Ringil hesitates, plunges doggedly on. “Not even Risgillen?”

This time, Pelmarag frowns. “Risgillen...” He shakes his head. “Risgillen won’t dare to make a move either way until she knows exactly what’s going on in Seethlaw’s mind.”

“Uh, okay. It’s just…” Ringil shrugs. “She hasn’t exactly made a mystery of the fact that she’s quite _protective_ of Seethlaw, you know? So I can’t imagine that she’s happy having me around in the current circumstances.”

“Obviously not.” Pelmarag’s tone is short now, but it turns outright scathing as he continues, “Then again, _none_ of us are _happy_ ” — he spits the word out, like a piece of spoilt food he’s accidentally bitten into — “with what happened.”

Ringil opens his mouth, hesitates, closes it again. But already Pelmarag is shaking his head again, and the anger is leaking out of him like water gliding off a seaman’s cloak. “I’m sorry.” His voice sounds just as exhausted as he looks. “I shouldn’t take this out on you. It’s not your fault.”

Ringil grimaces. “Well… A little bit, yes? I mean, if it weren’t for me—”

“No.” Pelmarag runs a hand down his face. “You can’t be blamed for simply _existing_ , can you?”

The question came out in an almost painfully weary whisper, and Ringil can’t stop himself. He’s the one who argued that they wouldn’t discuss it, but the words flow out almost on their own all the same, firm yet gentle. “You really should try to get some sleep.”

Pelmarag only looks at him for a moment, before gracefully pushing to his feet. “I will, when he wakes up.”

And just like that, Ringil is once more reminded that they are all in this together: Seethlaw of course, but also Risgillen, and Pelmarag, and Ringil himself, and who knows who else. “I’m sorry.” His mouth does that thing again, where it speaks before he’s even fully decided on what he wants to say. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

Last time he tried that, it was on Risgillen, and it didn’t end well at all. But then Seethlaw was dead back then, and he’s not now, and so instead of being met with fury, his apology only gives birth to a long, very long silence. Pelmarag has stopped on his way to the door; he stands, immobile, a couple of paces behind Ringil - who forces himself to simply wait…

When it finally comes, the answer is flat and quiet. “It wasn’t your fault. It’s not the first time Seethlaw’s done something like that. We should have known. We should have been more careful.” A beat, before he repeats in a defeated whisper, “It wasn’t your fault.”

And then he’s out of the room before Ringil’s brain has even finished properly processing what he said.

**

The words haunt Ringil.

_“It wasn’t your fault. It’s not the first time Seethlaw’s done something like that. We should have known. We should have been more careful.”_

It’s so stupid! He thought he’d been doing better, that he was adapting fine to this world - but all it took was a few words, and now he’s shivering on the bed under the covers. He knows he should eat, that it would probably help, but his head spins every time he tries to so much as sit up, and his body feels disjointed all over again.

It’s not the lack of food. It’s those words! _”It’s not the first time Seethlaw’s done something like that… We should have been more careful.”_

Ringil doesn’t understand why he’s so shocked. It’s not like he didn’t know about that side of Seethlaw’s. He’s had to deal with the dwenda trying to get himself killed at his hands twice already, and succeeding once. And Risgillen’s fears, when she warned him away from Seethlaw, couldn’t have come out of nowhere, could they? She tried to protect Seethlaw because Seethlaw was a danger to himself and she knew it. _”You are not the first. This we have seen before. This I have done myself, with mortal men and women. But I do not lose myself as my brother can. Clearly, I see.”_ She saw; she knew.

And so did Ringil. Maybe not the first time around, but in this second life? Yes, he saw, and he knew. That was one of the first things he learnt when he came back, wasn’t it? That Seethlaw is self-destructive in some deep, fundamental way. And, all right, so it’s true that it hadn’t occurred to him that Seethlaw might have already done something similar in the past, but that still doesn’t mean it should unsettle him that badly to learn of it now, does it? It’s logical, and it had nothing to do with him, so _why can’t he deal with it!?_

Why do those words keep turning round and round in his head? _”We should have known.”_ Why does he feel sick to his soul and his heart whenever he remembers Pelmarag’s dead, defeated voice? _”We should have been more careful.”_ Why can’t he just ignore it all, push it away, focus on something more useful? Pelmarag is right, after all: this isn’t Ringil’s fault! It’s not his fault. It’s… It’s not…

It’s not his fault… Is it?

Images…

Flashes.

He swallows against the creeping rise of broken memories in his mind, but they swim, unstoppable, up to the surface of his consciousness, taking advantage of the ever-increasing confusion in his thoughts and emotions.

Seethlaw, kneeling, arm dead to his side, face full of rage and despair - and yes, all right, that one _was_ Ringil’s fault, but he’s come back to prevent it, and he’s succeeded! So it doesn’t matter, right? It doesn’t count!

Seethlaw lying with his eyes closed and the dragon tooth dagger jutting out of his chest, however… Was this one Ringil’s fault? He never meant it. He didn’t want it! He tried everything he could to stop it from happening, and when he failed, he paid the price necessary to undo it. Isn’t that enough!?

But the images won’t stop pouring in, and now it’s a fire he’s seeing, a massive, raging fire in the middle of the night - Slab Findrich’s huge warehouse in the Salt Warren, burning helplessly and relentlessly, _honour pyre for a Throne Eternal captain_ , and no, no, he never meant that either, he never wanted that! Noyal… So young, so innocent… So much younger and more naive than Ringil. Ringil told himself at the time that they both knew the risks, but how true was it, really? He always intended, or at the very least always pretended to himself that he would, absolutely, bring the young captain safely back to Yhelteth - and he did try, he tried so hard! But… somewhere deep down… didn’t he always know that it was all a lie, that Noyal would die just like his brother before him, if Ringil forced him to face the dwenda?

And now the fire is gone but Ringil’s mind’s eyes are burning anyway as they keep staring up, at where the sun glints off steel bars, and he can’t look away, he can’t stop staring, and it’s the fabric of the world that seems to fray and tear apart because no, no, please, this can’t be happening, please, no, it’s not fair, Jelim doesn’t deserve that, please, please, it should have been him, Ringil Eskiath, it should have been him, don’t you see, _it was his fault!_

His fault.

 _His_ fault.

It _was_ his fault.

Pelmarag was wrong after all. It always was Ringil’s fault, all along.

Jelim, Seethlaw, Noyal… They wouldn’t have died, if not for him. They would still be alive, if he hadn’t wormed his way into their hearts, and used them, and damned them with his touch.

Everything is his fault, and he’s falling, falling, into a pit of fire and blood and steel and despair, and he wants to crawl out of his own skin, out of his own head, out of his own life, but he can’t, he _can’t!_

He jerks violently, muscles shuddering, nerves pulled too taut, when the door bell chimes. He wraps the covers tighter around himself, tries to stop the falling and the trembling and--

The bell rings again. He groans; the sounds are soft, but they ring like thunder in his head… He wants to answer, but he can’t find his voice, can’t make his mouth form the words, or his throat breathe life into them. He can only wait - wait and see if Pelmarag will invite himself in again…

He does. Or rather, Ashgrin does, as Ringil realises when the visitor kneels in front of him, and the dwenda’s grim face gently sways in and out of focus. Ringil whimpers and closes his eyes when a pale hand rises to meet his forehead. What will it be this time? If it’s the sleeping trick, then… Then that’s all right; he could really do with it at the moment. But if it’s the memory search again, then he’s pretty sure he’s going to puke, empty stomach or not.

In the end, it’s neither. In the end, it’s the rush of cool water flowing over sun-burnt skin. It’s the first gush of fresh night air after a long day of stifling heat. It’s the mounting pressure of a thunderstorm finally breaking out in a flood of torrential rain. It’s the sun piercing through the clouds at sea as the tempest moves away and the waters ease their demonic dance into the slow, gentle rhythm of a mother rocking her child to sleep.

It’s all this and so much more, and Ringil could _cry_ at the sheer relief of it.

He’s wrung out, mind and body and heart, when Ashgrin pulls his hand away, but it’s a wonderful kind of exhaustion - it’s the contented, bone-deep tiredness born of a day of hard and honest work, which promises a night of peaceful sleep.

“Adjusting takes time.” Ashgrin’s voice is a solid whisper, something Ringil can hold onto, fiercely.

He nods. He vaguely remembers Pelmarag saying the same thing yesterday - was it yesterday? How long did Ringil sleep? Do days and nights pass the same way here as they do in the real world anyway? Did—

“Shh…” Ashgrin’s fingertips are on his forehead again, smoothing the new whirlwind of questions away.

He hears the hesitation in the dwenda’s voice before he speaks again. He knows before the words are said what the question will be - and what he will gratefully, oh so gratefully, answer.

He pulls the covers a bit closer still, and welcomes the forced oblivion of unconsciousness.

** 

The sun is setting when Ashgrin gently shakes him awake with barely a hand on his shoulder. Ringil carefully pushes himself up onto an elbow and is immensely relieved when, once again, his body obeys him and his head remains clear. He has a feeling that it won’t last, that he will crash again sooner or later, but he’ll take what he can get in the meantime.

“Can you walk?” the dwenda asks.

“I think so.” Ringil throws the covers away, sits up, and slings his legs over the side of the bed. Ashgrin hovers barely a yard away, but steps back when Ringil manages to pull his boots on and then stand - and stay - up on his own.

When he moves to the door and turns back to beckon Ringil to follow him, the dwenda’s eyes catch the light of the setting sun, and blaze pink and orange. Ringil swallows as the memory of another time - another place, another dwenda, the sun was rising instead of setting, and Ringil was losing consciousness instead of waking up - flutters through his mind, but then pushes the distracting thought away to better focus on Ashgrin’s silent instructions.

The dwenda has wrapped his hand around the door frame and is waving Ringil through. The sight of the white fingers just suddenly cutting off makes Ringil’s stomach flip, but he takes it in stride and reaches for the door with his own hand.

The door opposes no more resistance this time than the bathroom one did earlier.

There’s nothing but a blank corridor outside, seemingly carved out of the same pale, sand-coloured stone as the bedroom and bathroom. Ashgrin takes off to one side and Ringil follows as quietly as he can. They pass another door, and then step onto a large spiralling staircase at the end of the hallway. They go down one floor and exit onto another corridor just like the one above, once again with only two arching door patches in one of the blank walls to break the uniformity.

When they reach the first one, Ashgrin sticks his head into it - and no, it doesn’t get any easier on Ringil to watch body parts just disappear in that way. Then he pulls back, wraps his hand around the door jamb once more, and motions for Ringil to slip in.

It’s another bedroom, similar in build to his own but much sparser in decoration. Ringil doesn’t have any time to take a good look around, though: with a light touch to the back of his shoulder, Ashgrin is pushing him towards the large bed on one side of the room.

Ringil has already guessed - already _hoped_ \- where they are, but the confirmation slams into his guts like a fist, and he’s shaking as he sits on the edge of the mattress.

Seethlaw’s eyes are closed. His unbound hair is spread over the pillow, throwing his white face into almost painful contrast. His cheekbones seem to stand out even more, the skin over them taut to splitting point. At least, though, there’s no sign of blood anywhere, and the slow breathing is quiet and deep and even. It’s almost hard to believe that only two days ago - was it two days? Maybe, maybe not, who knows in this place - Firfirdar herself had to bring the dwenda peacefully lying here back from the very brink of death.

But she did, and Ringil remembers it all only too well. The memories overlap in his mind, bringing up the ghost of dark bubbles at the corner of the white lips, the telltale rattle of last breaths rasping up the long marble column of the throat, the razor-sharp line of broken skin on the neck… He can’t stop his fingers from trembling when they settle onto a bony temple, slide into the silky black hair.

Seethlaw wakes up with a gasp and Ringil feels his own breath catch in his chest. It’s all he can do to sit here, barely breathing, while Seethlaw stares at him like he’s never seen him before.

“… Gil?” A whisper, laden with disbelief. Pink and orange flash across the empty eyes as Seethlaw’s gaze shuffles back and forth between Ringil’s face and the ceiling, the window, trying to understand, to make sense of Ringil’s presence _here_ …

Ringil throws a glance over his shoulder; Ashgrin is nowhere to be seen, most likely keeping guard outside. Another look at Seethlaw’s bewildered face—

— and Ringil leans in.

His hand cups the angular jaw, holds it in place while his lips catch the surprised gulp straight from Seethlaw’s mouth.

There’s no resistance. If anything, Seethlaw raises his chin, inclines his head, just enough to allow Ringil’s tongue better access.

Ringil sighs into the kiss in desperate relief. His other hand moves in as well, thumb brushing against a hollow cheek, fingertips padding along the curve of an ear, palm reaching down to wrap itself around the bare neck.

… Seethlaw’s pulse, fluttering far too fast against the heel of Ringil’s hand.

He pulls back, barely, just enough to look into the wild, empty eyes. From here, he can feel as well as hear every shallow gasp, and his heart twists in his chest.

“Hey…” He lowers his forehead onto Seethlaw’s, closes his eyes. His thumb sweeps the length of the panting lips. “It’s all right. Everything is all right. Calm down.”

This only seems to make things worse. The white fingers wrapping themselves around Ringil’s wrist are cold and shaking. They don’t try to pull Ringil’s hand away; rather, they seem to hold onto it as onto a lifeline.

“Gil… What…”

Ringil can almost feel in his own bones the effort it takes Seethlaw to push every word out through a throat tightened with dread. The pain in his chest blooms larger and deeper in response. Confusion, he can understand. Anger, he would have. But fear? Fear has no place between them - not here, not now, and most importantly, not _anymore_. And even if it did… Well then, it should be the other way around, shouldn’t it? Ringil is the one who should be afraid for his life in these circumstances. And yet…

He remembers the last few days in the marsh. He remembers Seethlaw holding himself apart, avoiding Ringil, hugging himself. He remembers the unmistakable terror staring at him from deep within Seethlaw’s dark eyes, that evening at the ferry place. He remembers their last discussion in Pranderghal, the way Seethlaw’s defencive anger rose hot and bright, before crumbling under Ringil’s will.

And of course, he remembers only too well the fight in Trelayne, with steel this time, and Seethlaw nearly begging in every way but words for Ringil to _kill_ him… Kill him rather than— than— than _what?_

_What the fuck are you so afraid of, Seethlaw!?_


	20. Ringil

Ringil leans down once more, brush of lips against lips, whispers urgently, “Please, calm down.” He’s babbling now, trying to find the right words, _any_ right words, to reach through the alarm wrapping itself ever thicker around Seethlaw like some malevolent, invisible fog. “Everything is all right now. Everything is over; it’s go—”

Violent shudder of the thin hand curled around his wrist. Stutter of the already too fast breath, and a painful-sounding gasp as Seethlaw’s body jerks, tense and tight, under Ringil.

Ringil’s stomach drops like a stone. His eyes snap open, blur over as they stare down into the empty ones looking back at him with--

“Gods.” Ringil’s voice is a strangled whisper. “Seethlaw.” His hands shiver on either side of the dwenda’s face. “What…” The words catch in his throat, but he pushes them out, stubbornly, like pus, like poison that needs to be cleared out of a wound before it can be closed and bandaged. “What did I ever do to make you fear me like that!?”

Because once again there’s no doubt to be had: it’s bone-deep terror he sees looking back at him from Seethlaw’s eyes, screaming at him in every breath, every shiver.

But this time, with nowhere left to flee, Seethlaw has no choice but to fight back - and so he does. Ringil watches as the dark brows knot in determination; he feels the sharp jaws working stubbornly under his palms, sees the white throat ripple as Seethlaw swallows before forcing his own questions out.

“Why… are you here? What—” Another shallow breath, another scowl, another clench in his cheek. “What do you _want?_ ”

Ringil blinks in despair. The words are not quite the same, but this is the same angry, confused incomprehension Seethlaw threw at him in Pranderghal.

And Ringil answered back then. He thought he’d been clear enough, yet everything has only gone even further downhill since then. What _can_ he say, that Seethlaw won’t somehow distort, somehow turn into a threat in some unfathomable way!?

He feels a sob rising in his throat. He spits an answer out instead.

“You.” Isn’t it obvious!? “ _You,_ arsehole!” The pain in Ringil’s chest, the fear and the confusion in his head, they all twist around each other, bleed into each other, and a thread of hurt is born, solidifies into anger as it coils around Ringil’s heart, something he can hold onto to push back instead of falling apart. “You nearly _died_ on me!” He’s struggling not to shout. His fingertips are pushing into Seethlaw’s scalp as his hands try to turn into tense fists. He can’t help but shake them, just a little, just to help drive his message home. “I nearly _lost_ you!”

 _Blood, Seethlaw, there was blood everywhere! Blood on the ground, blood on your face, blood on my hands!_ Your _blood, everywhere!_

Seethlaw doesn’t fight back, just stares at him like he suddenly doesn’t understand Naomic anymore. “But…”

“But what!?”

“I thought—” He stops himself, looks away.

Ringil is shivering all over again. He closes his eyes, takes a frayed breath. “You thought what?” The helpless anger pours out once more when no answer comes forth. He opens his eyes; his gaze roams all over the closed off, beautiful face as he rages in whispers. “What the hell _did_ you think, Seethlaw!? I _told_ you! Come and see me. Come and _talk_ to me! Which part of this translated into, ‘I want you dead,’ in your fucked-up brain, exactly!?”

Seethlaw still won’t look at him, and Ringil wants to cry. He doesn’t understand… “Where did I go so wrong that you ever thought I would want you _dead!?_ ”

Seethlaw gasps then, a deep, full-body call for air. The look in his eyes is crazed when he turns his gaze on Ringil again, and his lips are trembling, but Ringil won’t mind if only he will _talk!_

He does.

“You’re the one who said it, Gil.” There’s a raw essence to his voice, like skin chafed to bleeding. “ _‘A cheap fuck doesn’t need to have a name. But I like to know what to call the men I’m going to kill.’_ That’s what you _said_ , Gil!”

Ringil stares, momentarily at a loss for words. He remembers saying this, of course he does, but… “Seethlaw… That - that was…” How is he supposed to explain something so obvious!? “That was _before!_ Before the Grey Places, before I got to know you, before - before _everything!_ “

This time, Seethlaw shoots his answer right away, and Ringil realises with a pang just how long and how hard the dwenda must have been musing on these matters. “What about, _‘I am not letting you start another war between the League and the Empire,’_ then? What about, _‘This is not happening. You know that’_ ? ”

Ringil winces. He can see where this is going, but he can’t find a way to stop it. “Yes. Yes, I said that, but—”

“ _‘Come and find me back in Trelayne.’_ ” Now that he’s started, Seethlaw won’t stop. “ _‘Don’t go forward with that plan of yours until we’ve seen each other.’_ ” Again and again, he throws Ringil’s own words into his face. “That’s what you _said,_ Gil!”

“And which of those words,” Ringil snaps back, “were supposed to mean that I wanted you _dead!?_ ”

That shuts Seethlaw up for a minute. He seems utterly baffled as he stares into Ringil’s face - but baffled is better than terrified, so Ringil will take it, for now.

Then, finally, “What… _else_ … were they supposed to mean, then?” The same pain-turned-anger rises in Seethlaw’s eyes as churns in Ringil’s chest, hardens the white face even tighter, makes Seethlaw spit out the next words. “ _‘You fucking piece of shit. You cunt.’_ What was _that_ supposed to mean, Ringil!? _‘What kind of fucking co-existence is that?’_ What did you _mean,_ then?”

… And _now_ Ringil understands. It’s an icy waterfall pouring over his shoulders, drenching him, freezing him to the bones, as memory after memory flood him…

He closes his eyes, remembers the fight in the marsh.

He remembers Seethlaw, trying to make him understand the Aldrain way, _”This really is a minor matter, Ringil. You’re making far too much of it,”_ \- and Ringil only hating him in return, a little bit more with each word.

He remembers Seethlaw, realising what was happening, trying to stop the flow of events, _”I’m not sure you will understand,”_ \- and again, as Ringil dismissed every word he said, seized on every explanation to find a new reason to fight, to rage, to argue, _”Do you really require an answer to this tirade?”_

And Ringil, _lying_ as his only reply, lying openly, lying blatantly, _”Hey, we’re fucking talking, aren’t we?”_

Except they weren’t, because he was well beyond talking. If he’d remembered that the Ravensfriend was in its place on his back, he would have long dragged it out by then, and they would have _finished this thing the way they’d started it_ indeed, right there and then.

Seethlaw saw that. He saw the hatred and the fury. Yet, still, he tried to _explain,_ to _convince_ Ringil. And when nothing he could say seemed to calm Ringil’s rage, he laid out his last cards, in a direct appeal to Ringil’s nature. _”You know, Gil, I had thought you of all people might be able to understand.”_

… Only to be thrown back onto his arse in the harshest, most painful way Ringil could think of. _”You know nothing of me. Nothing. You’ve fucked me, that’s all. And us humans, we’re a lying, dissembling bunch, remember. Doesn’t pay to trust us between the sheets any more than anywhere else.”_

Another lie, proffered with a savage joy for how wrong and false it all was, because that’s what Ringil does when he’s angry or hurt: he gathers those feelings, spins them together, and sends them back out as one of those barbed, vicious verbal attacks that cut people to their core and bring so much cruel satisfaction to Ringil in return.

It’s how humans live, isn’t it? They hurt each other, and the one who hurts the other the most wins. This is how Ringil was raised, what he was taught from infancy. This is what he learnt from watching his parents argue throughout his childhood and youth, from watching the various nobles in Trelayne battle each other with words, from watching Grace-of-Heaven and Poppy and Slab tear down underlings and opponents without weapons.

And then he tried it himself, and it worked, time after time. Using his mouth as much as his fists to hurt people; killing them with words as well as with his sword: that’s how he’s been living, for so long that he doesn’t remember a time when he _didn’t_ do it. Even when he was fighting the Scaled Folk, who never talked back, and showed no sign that they even understood human speech, he still did it anyway, hurling abuse at them as he cut them down, because that was the only way he knew how to deal with the fear and the pain and the anger.

Always, always, even when there seemed to be no hope left, or even when it was guaranteed to _make things even worse,_ he couldn’t help it!

And right now… He could do it again, so easily. It would come so naturally. He’s more than frustrated enough to just give up on the conversation, and instead go looking for an opening to hurt someone, _anyone_ \- even if that means hurting the last person he _wants_ to hurt right now. How many times has he done just that in his life: punch with words the person he most wanted to get along with at the moment, simply because it was so much less distressing than trying to navigate through a difficult discussion? How many times has he _immediately_ regretted doing it, as soon as he saw the blow land and the shock bloom in the other person’s eyes - only to double down on it anyway because now he felt even _worse?_

That’s what he did to Seethlaw back in Ennishmin, and the better it worked, the more Seethlaw struggled to deal with that cruelty, the deeper Ringil plunged into that inner well of viciousness, just so he could score a win, any win, at any price.

And he did win, too. He remembers it only too well… How often he’s thought back to that one last moment, to Seethlaw’s ultimate, desperate attempt, his hands on Ringil’s shoulders, his voice pleading, _”You’re wrong, Gil. I’ve seen you in the marches. I see how you handled yourself there. I see what the akiya saw, Gil.”_ Only to be met with Ringil’s final lie, the one where he refused to face any and all of his feelings that weren’t anger, where he denied the changes he could already see happening within himself, and rejected everything Seethlaw had ever told or given him that didn’t fuel his rage. _”I’ve done all the becoming I’m going to do in this life. I’ve seen enough to know where it all goes.”_

He knew he was lying, on a very fundamental level, right as he said it, because Ringil Eskiath was _never_ able to stop becoming who and what he was. His life would have been tremendously different, all the way back from his childhood, if he’d known how to do what so many people had begged or demanded from him all along: that he stop being who he was, stop growing even further into what he was, change tracks, take control of his life, _somehow._

But he could never do that, and he was only too fucking aware of it, so that was another blatant truth he’d deliberately denied when he’d told Seethlaw otherwise. And with someone else, with his mother, or Egar or Archeth, or Grashgal or Flaradnam, it wouldn’t have mattered, because they would have understood that he was lying to himself as much as to them.

Seethlaw, however… Seethlaw had not known any better than to believe him. When they’d stared at each other after that, Ringil had thought he was the one falling into Seethlaw’s empty eyes. He’d been too blinded by his own muddled feelings, to realise that it was Seethlaw who had tripped, and bent, and broken.

Broken forever.

All because in his anger, Ringil had forgotten to account for one thing - just one thing, but such an important one.

In that crucial moment, he’d forgotten that Seethlaw was literally _not human_ , and did not understand humans.

A human, or someone familiar with humans, would have understood, would have known that Ringil’s words were just his anger and pain and confusion talking. But Seethlaw was not - is not - human, nor does he know them. He told Ringil so. _”We’re none of us used to dealing with humans after so long. It’s a constant learning experience.”_

Seethlaw didn’t comprehend what it meant for Ringil to be human - just like Ringil failed to grasp what it meant for Seethlaw to be Aldrain.

All his life, Ringil’s only known lies. Even with family, friends, lovers, at all times, the question of how much anyone says is true and how much is some kind of lie, has always, _always_ lurked in some corner of his mind. It’s exactly as Seethlaw said: _”The tongues of men are not much leashed by concern for accuracy or truth. It seems lies come very easily to your race. They lie to those they lead, to their mates and fellows no matter how close drawn, even to themselves if it will make the world around them more bearable.”_

Right there and then, Seethlaw was fucking telling him! ‘Don’t lie to me; unlike humans, I won’t be able to spot it.’ But Ringil could not even _imagine_ such a possibility. He could not conceive of the existence of intelligent people who would not routinely lie to each other, as everyone else did. That's just the way of the world, isn’t it? The way of _everyone_ in this fucking world!?

How was he supposed to understand that Seethlaw would truly never say anything he didn’t mean? And even further, that consequently, naturally, _inevitably,_ he would assume that Ringil meant every word he said in return? How was Ringil supposed to realise that when he said they were just having a discussion, not an all-out fight, Seethlaw would automatically believe him? That when he said he was never going to change his mind, or turned every single one of Seethlaw’s explanations into yet another abomination, Seethlaw would have no idea that he wasn’t being truthful nor honest?

And then when Ringil said that in those rare private moments when Seethlaw opened himself to him, body and soul, and allowed his passionate side to run free of the tight control he tried to keep on it, that even at those times, Ringil was in fact lying to him all along…

Gods, it hurts! It hurts so much to think that Seethlaw _believed_ him! _Yes, I was trying to cut you, but it was the lie itself, the fact that I would even say something so horrible, that was supposed to cause you pain! I never, ever wanted you to just accept something so awful!_

He understands now.

Confronted to lie after lie from Ringil, Seethlaw had no choice but to conclude that Ringil hated and despised him, and everything he stood for. He even said as much, less than an hour after their fight, didn’t he? _”Satisfied? You have everything you want now? There’s nothing more for you here, is there?”_ When Ringil stepped out of the stables with Sherin in his arms, he found Seethlaw standing outside with his back to the wall and his arms folded in that defencive way of his, staring at nothing at all…

Staring, Ringil understands now, at the ashes of what he’d thought he’d had with Ringil, and convinced that he’d lost Ringil for good already and forever. _”There’s nothing more for you here, is there?”_

For the first time, Ringil wonders why the being of light brought him back to that moment, when it was already _too late_. Ringil had thought his new answer the second time around was supposed to make a difference, but it had already been too late, far too late! _An hour earlier… Just an hour earlier, and none of this would have happened…_

He opens his eyes again, stares into Seethlaw’s bewildered face, registers the lingering fear in the deep gaze, in the shivering fingers wrapped around his wrist, in the short, shallow breaths brushing against his cheek. He understands, more and more, as the memories keep pouring in, bathed in the harsh light of this new paradigm.

The discussion in Pranderghal, for example, was nothing more than Seethlaw trying to give them both a way out, wasn’t it?

_”You’re just sending me home, just like that? And we’re gonna pretend nothing happened?”_

_“That would be ideal.”_

It was Seethlaw’s desperate offer of a new blank slate, for both of them - in exchange for what he saw as Ringil’s actual intention: to kill him, as he’d promised all the way back in Trelayne, in order to stop his plans for good, once and for all. So when Ringil replied with a mention of the preparations taking place in Ennishmin, and explicitly said that he wasn’t going to let Seethlaw keep at it… With every word, Ringil had only reinforced Seethlaw’s conviction that Ringil wanted him dead.

And the worst part of it all… is that in another life, he would have been right. Because in another life, Ringil _did_ kill him to stop him.

Ringil feels dark tendrils of despair twine around the hot sparks of frustration already setting his nerves on fire. His hands on either side of Seethlaw’s face are trembling with a growing need to lash out in some way, at something or someone, to lance that boil and rid himself both of those miserable emotions and of the helplessness he feels at being unable to do anything about them!

But he can’t. He mustn’t. Not this time.

He can’t allow the pain or the anger to take him over, not when he has something so much more important to do - if only he can figure out how to do it! _Gods… How do I come back from this?_

_… One word at a time, that’s how._

He takes a deep breath, locks gazes with Seethlaw, traces the line of a cheekbone with his thumb.

Begins.

“All right, look,” he whispers. “I’m just a fucking human, and I said a whole lot of things I didn’t mean. I was angry, and hurt. I wanted to hurt you back. So I reached for whichever lie would be likely to cut you worst.”

Seethlaw frowns. He’s listening; that’s good enough. Ringil sweeps down. Press of lips against lips; Seethlaw chasing the kiss when Ringil pulls back - just barely, but it’s there.

Their breaths mingle as Ringil murmurs, “I’m not lying now. If there’s one thing I want you to believe, it’s what I’m going to say.” Soft gasp against his mouth. “I don’t want you dead. Not now, not ever.”

Those few moments when Seethlaw stops breathing, feel like an eternity.

Then the pitch-black eyes close, and there’s a hitch in the deep, musical voice, before it flatly whispers, “Then I don’t understand what you _do_ want, Ringil Eskiath.”

 _What I do want…?_ Well, that’s easy enough. “I want to give you what you want.”

“What!?” Puff of shock against his lips. Empty eyes flying wide open again.

“You want Ennishmin? I’ll _give_ you Ennishmin. Just not the way you would go at it.” Ringil stares into the wide, incredulous eyes. “No war, Seethlaw.” He hears his voice grow pleading. “No more war, for fuck’s sake, that’s all I’m asking for!”

And then he watches, tries to follow the emotions as they dance their way across the white face, chase and confront each other, whirl around one another until…

Seethlaw releases Ringil’s wrist, raises his hand to softly drag his fingers down the side of Ringil’s face. His voice is an exhausted wisp when he finally answers, “I - I don’t… I need…” He doesn’t seem to know how to end his sentence, but Ringil can guess.

“You need time?” He forces a shaky smile onto his face. “You _are_ time here, remember?” Seethlaw’s eyes grow wide again as he identifies the reference. Ringil bends down one last time, for one last kiss. Before pulling back, he whispers into Seethlaw’s ear, “You are all the time we both need.”

And then he’s off, up on his feet and out of the door before he can give into his desperate, selfish desire to just lie down there, wrap his arms around Seethlaw and hold him tight, until the dwenda has no choice but to believe him, somehow.

***


	21. Egar

For once, Egar was mightily thankful that he wasn’t twenty years younger, as he followed Archeth back into the room. It would have made things extremely awkward.

He blinked but could hardly be bothered to really care when Archeth headed straight for the war table instead of the circle of seats where Ringil, Shanta and Galat were waiting, nibbling on cakes and sipping cold tea in awkward silence, and sat herself right opposite the dwenda. Automatically, Egar took his usual place next to her, with Rakan on her other side.

And then, as the others stood up and joined them, he tried to _think_. What the fuck had happened out there?

The attraction, the raw lust, he understood. He was no child, and he’d bedded more than his fair share of gorgeous women, but as his years spent as Clanmaster on the steppes had so amply demonstrated, he was still hopeless when it came to a pretty face and a few nice curves. So all right, that female dwenda was beautiful, and he’d wanted it - her? whatever - to a ridiculous, even shameful if he were honest, degree. That wasn’t what troubled him.

No, what bothered him was, what had she been doing there? Her attention had clearly been focused on Archeth, but Egar could not have said what her motives had been. Was it just curiosity? Had Pelmarag been wrong about none of the dwenda being out for revenge, and this one had been sizing an enemy up?

Or… He looked at Ringil seating himself on the dwenda’s side, opposite Rakan, no doubt to keep an eye on him. _Is this what they did to you, Gil? Is this what Milacar was talking about?_

To think that just last night, they’d all discussed the possibility of this very thing happening, of their being put under the same kind of glamour Gil had been subjected to, and Archeth had dismissed it all with a shrug. _”There seems to be a sexual component to this particular glamour. This should keep all of us quite safe.”_ Ha! How could they have been so short-sighted as to not consider the possibility of a _female_ dwenda? That was so fucking obvious!

Though… Something was not quite right. Ringil and the dwenda, they could not have known that Archeth would go out on that balcony, could they? They could not have _planned_ on it. Not to mention that quite frankly, if they were going to use such a method, then why would they not use it on _all_ of them at once, by having the female dwenda sit at those negotiations? She wouldn’t even need to talk; her presence would be enough to disrupt the attention of everyone on Archeth’s team.

So yes, something was wrong here. Either Ringil had refused to go along with that plan and the dwenda had gone behind his back to do it anyway, or that wasn’t what was happening in the first place. But in that case… Then _what?_

Shanta’s reedy voice cut through Egar’s confused thoughts. “My lady, if I may?” Egar blinked and looked up at where the old engineer was now seated, straight opposite him, on the other side of the dwenda from Ringil. He seemed surprisingly comfortable nearly rubbing shoulders with the creature, but then again, Egar supposed he hadn’t survived at the Imperial Court for so long without learning to endure all kinds of unpleasantness with a smile. By contrast, Galat’s inexperience showed painfully in the way he had sat himself at the head of the table, and looked a bit too obviously relieved to be somewhat removed from the rest of them.

Archeth was leaning forward with her elbows firmly planted on the tabletop, and her fingers intertwined. _”Tell me about Ennishmin,”_ she’d said when she’d sat down, and since then, she and the dwenda had been staring silently at each other, waiting for the others to finish taking their places. At least, she didn’t seem to have been too dazed by her encounter with the female dwenda, even if at the time, she had clearly been just as entranced as Egar and Rakan.

She kept her gaze on the dwenda’s face as she responded almost absently to Shanta, “Yes?”

“My lord Ringil,” Shanta started cautiously, turning to his side and leaning a little forward to see Ringil across the dwenda, “I hope you won’t be offended by my question. I assure you that I don’t mean to cast any doubt upon your word…”

Ringil smiled thinly. “My lord Shanta, you will have _plenty_ of opportunities to cast doubt upon my word. If I were to take offence every time you seem to do so, I might as well just walk away from this table at once and never come back.”

“… Right.” Egar repressed a grin at Shanta’s obvious, though brief, loss of balance. Ringil’s answer was very much _not_ what an Imperial courtier would expect, and he had been truly taken aback for a moment. _Yep, that’s Gil all right. Better get used to it._ Shanta rallied quickly enough, cleared his throat, and started again. “Well then, may I point out a discrepancy in your accounts?” Ringil frowned but nodded. “You said that you gave your sword to the demon gods in exchange for a favour… And then you said that those same demon gods are actively opposed to the return of the dwenda.”

 _Oh._ That… was a good point. And indeed, even Archeth blinked and turned her head to look at Ringil as they all waited for his explanation.

He didn’t seem terribly ruffled, though, just somewhat annoyed. “That’s the Dark Court for you, yes.” He huffed. “One thing you really need to understand about them, is that _everything_ is a game for them. Do you know, for example, what the Dark Queen’s title is?”

Shanta was stumped.

But Galat wasn’t. His voice was thin but firm enough when he answered, from the end of the table where he was sitting, “The mistress of dice and death.”

Shanta’s eyes widened, and Gil confirmed it. “Precisely. The demon gods place no value on any individual human’s life or death, unless they can use him or her as a pawn in their eternal games. They can just as coldly and easily save you or kill you, depending on the throw of the dice, or even on their mood that day. So that night, Firfirdar tried to play me, tried to force me into a corner, just to watch me squirm because I annoyed her.” A nasty grin Egar remembered only too well played on his lips. “That bitch was so sure she had me.” And then both the grin and the anger disappeared, like embers thrown into a pond. “She wasn’t happy when I took her bait and swallowed it whole, let me tell you that.”

“Pah.” Rakan seemed disgusted. “And they call themselves gods!?”

Ringil lifted a hand, palm open flat. “Well, they do have the power to crush human lives at will.” He made a fist. “I’d say that makes them godlike enough for practical purposes. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Rakan frowned, but didn’t reply. 

“Right.” Ringil turned back to Shanta. “Maybe Firfirdar was planning on giving me something else out of the endless bounty of her heart.” The sarcasm in his voice could have cut through Kiriath steel. “Maybe she meant to recruit me to her side, or at least distract me, by helping me reach some other goal she thought I might value as much. Who knows? All I’m sure of, is that she was absolutely _certain_ I was going to refuse her initial offer. She knew the value I placed on the Ravensfriend. It was _supposed_ to be too high a price to pay.” His face turned hard, stony. “She was wrong. She lost that bet, and I lost the Ravensfriend. But at least” — another dark smirk twisted his lips — “I walked away with something I wanted, and she didn’t.”

Shanta didn’t comment, but once again, Galat did, in a small, subdued voice. “And that favour you obtained from her, does it ultimately help your plans to return the dwenda to this world?”

“Very much so, yes.”

“Then I imagine that turn of events only enhanced the, er, Dark Court’s displeasure with this whole business?”

“Obviously. For example, they did go to the trouble of interfering directly, and pulling that little trick with the Ravensfriend, just to turn the lady kir-Archeth and the rest of you against me, didn’t they?” Only an uneasy, grim silence answered him. He nodded and continued. “They don’t like where this _could_ be going, and even if it’s all a game to them, they are still trying to keep it under a certain degree of control.” He grimaced. “And make no mistake: what they’ve done so far is nothing compared to what they came up with in the past to get rid of the dwenda.”

Speaking of dwenda, Egar noticed, the one sitting at the table seemed remarkably unconcerned with everything happening around it. It was sitting back in its chair now, ignoring the humans talking on either side of it. Its arms were crossed once more and its blank black eyes were fixed on the map of Ennishmin, laid out on the table between it and Archeth.

But then Egar caught the smallest jump of a muscle on its temple, and he understood, suddenly. _It’s not that you don’t care, is it? You do care - too much, in fact._ The indifference was manufactured, a shell it was hiding behind to conceal whatever depth and wealth of difficult feelings it was dealing with.

The realisation made the creature look oddly human in Egar’s eyes, and to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. With the Lizards, at least, it had been clear-cut, in Egar’s head anyway: they had been nothing more than both intelligent and murderous animals. But the dwenda… Who and what _were_ they? First that female one - _and don’t lie to yourself, Dragonbane: she was a woman before she was a dwenda, when you wanted so badly into her breeches, out there on the balcony_ \- and now this one, hiding who knew what feelings under a mask of disinterest.

They were not some unfathomable monsters out of legends. They were not the Lizards. And if they were willing to let a human speak for them and lead them, then they were not even like the Sky Dwellers, magic notwithstanding.

 _No._ Egar stared harder still at Pelmarag, taking in the taut line of its - his? - mouth, the excessive focus of its - _his_ \- gaze, the slight hunch of his shoulders… _No. What you are, is just like the rest of us, isn’t it? Like the humans, and like the Kiriath._

And _that_ changed a whole lot of things, as far as Egar was concerned. The Sky Dwellers, selfish and sadistic little manipulative arseholes that they were, could go fuck themselves. But Egar had lived and worked alongside the Kiriath, and there were several he would have gladly given his own life to protect; hell, there was still half of one he absolutely would defend to the death if needs be. Immortal or not, with or without their ridiculously advanced technology, the Kiriath at their core were just like humans: they had the same emotions, the same strengths and weaknesses, the same hopes and fears.

Above it all, they’d had one dream in particular, one that was just as universal among humans as well: that desperate longing for _home_ \- a dream which, according to the remaining Helmsmen, and no matter how much Archeth refused to hear it, had probably finally killed them, eradicated the whole bunch of millennia-old immortals, not long after they’d re-entered the veins of the Earth.

As much as Egar grieved for Archeth and her loss, he could never completely blame Grashgal and the others for trying to go home anyway. He knew only too well the deep, quiet yet excruciating pain of that particular yearning. When he had travelled back to the steppes after so many years spent in the Empire and the League, he had been thoroughly soul-sick. As a Majak berserker, he would never have admitted to it out loud, but the truth was that he had seen enough death and atrocities to last him a lifetime, and he had been looking forward to going _home_ , to finding again the peace of mind and fullness of heart which he thought he remembered from the memories of his childhood and early youth.

It had turned out, though, that he didn’t quite belong there anymore. He never truly fit back in, and now that he could never return there after being banished by his brothers, he could admit if only to himself that it was obvious he never _would_ have found a satisfying place among his own people, no matter how many years he gave it.

All that said, and as happy of a compromise of a life he had found in Yhelteth again, between serving Archeth and messing around with Imrana, he was perfectly aware that he didn’t belong anymore either in the Empire - not the way he once did, when he‘d been much younger, much more thoughtless, and with no concern for the future beyond the next few days and nights, the next few fucks and fights.

He didn’t quite belong _anywhere_ anymore, and he figured that gave him an insight into how the Kiriath must have felt all through the long, endless centuries. This was a dull but unrelenting ache which never left you, like an old war wound which had never quite properly healed, and which sometimes flared into a pain acute enough that it made you want to bite down on a pellet of flandrijn to ride it out. Egar supposed Ringil must have felt it too, all cooped up in that backwater hole he’d washed out in. Even Archeth, if she could not understand her father’s people’s desire to return to a place she’d never known, must nonetheless have lived her whole existence in a somewhat similar situation, with one foot in the world of humans, and the other in the world of the Kiriath, never fully at home in either.

And now the Kiriath were gone, and Egar couldn’t even begin to fathom how Archeth must be feeling about that. Try as he might, he simply couldn’t imagine how he would feel if the Majak disappeared overnight, if he rode up to the steppes and there was nothing left of them but abandoned yurts, herds of buffalo turned wild, Ishlin-ichan silent but for the wind whistling through the crumbling ruins… No, this wasn’t something he could even begin to imagine.

The muscle jumped quietly in Pelmarag’s temple again. _So now, Egar, son of Erkan, of the Majak clan Skaranak, what about being banished from the steppes forever? Can you imagine that? Can you imagine some foreign people invading the steppes, and telling you you can never go back there, whether you want to or not?_

No, he knew he couldn’t. He did know, however, that it would hurt like hell, and it would fill him with an eternal, unabating rage that would burn through his bones and sinews until the day he died. 

_And if those invaders suddenly disappeared… What would you do, then?_

That one was easy: he’d come back and claim the steppes again. Even if they had been turned into a wasteland in the meantime, he would want them back. Even if he had built for himself the most luxurious life elsewhere, he would give it all up in a heartbeat for a chance to ride under the open, endless sky again. Even if he’d grown so old and feeble that he could barely stay in a saddle anymore, he would _still_ go back, and he would still claim the steppes again for himself and for all remaining Majak, no matter what it took, and even if he had to die trying and failing.

There would be nothing - not distance, not age, not wealth or family or _anything_ \- that would stop him from riding right back up there, and dying in the long grass, under the band-lit sky, one way or another.

He stared at the dwenda sitting next to Ringil. _Is this what you’re feeling, Pelmarag of Illwrack? Is this why you’re willing to sit here, to let a human speak for you while you face the last member of the race which exiled your people?_

If that was the case, then Egar already knew the answer to the question, “Why Ennishmin?” _Because it’s your home, and you want it back, like anybody else would._ And just like that, he knew, quietly but without the shadow of a doubt, that if Ringil and Archeth managed to agree on anything in this matter, then they would have his full and unconditional support.

… First, though, they all had to get through at least this first day of negotiations. _Try to focus, Dragonbane._

“Yes. Speaking of the past…” Galat’s voice had gained in assurance, now that he’d finally found the courage to express his curiosity. “I’ve read a little about both the dwenda and the demon gods, and nowhere does it mention any kind of conflict between them. Yet you affirm with seemingly no doubts that the demon gods will do anything in their power to stop the dwenda coming back. With all due respect, my lord, may I ask what you base that assurance on, exactly?”

Pelmarag sighed and closed his eyes. Ringil watched him warily, then when he seemed confident enough that the dwenda wasn’t going to do anything more, glanced at Galat before shifting his attention back to Archeth. “See, Archidi, that’s what Pel meant. If you knew anything about the history between your two people, there would be no need for that kind of questions.”

 _’Pel’, huh?_ Egar couldn’t help but notice. This one may not be Ringil’s lover, but they were nonetheless clearly more than just business associates.

The line of Archeth’s mouth had tightened, but that was the only sign of displeasure she allowed herself to exhibit. Instead, she kept her tone remarkably calm when she answered, “What is done is done - or rather not done, in this case. There’s no changing the past. Which is why I’m asking: tell me about Ennishmin, or about anything else you think I need to know.”

Ringil inclined his head. “You’re right, my lady, of course.” _Yeah, give some fucking credit where credit is due, Gil. This isn’t easy for her either, you know that._ Ringil turned back to Galat. “To answer your question, Invigilator, my basis for being so sure that the Dark Court don’t want the Aldrain back, is a history of several millennia of war between them, culminating in the Dark Court summoning the Kiriath here in order to help them win a fight they eventually realised they couldn’t win on their own.”

 _Say what!?_ Egar blinked, and Archeth’s sharp intake of breath was clearly heard in the sudden, echoing silence. She sounded spectacularly pissed, just on this side of snapping, when she commented curtly, “My people were _shipwrecked_ here.” _Yeah, you know that, Gil!_

Ringil spoke softly, but his words cut through the chilly air all the same. “And they just _happened_ to be thrown in the middle of a millennia-long war?”

“That’s…” Archeth scowled. “That’s not…”

Egar’s gaze flickered from one of his friends to the other. He was just as lost as everybody else. The Kiriath had _always_ said they’d been shipwrecked. There had _never_ been any mention of an intervention by the fucking Sky Dwellers!

Gil sighed. “Milady.” His voice was gentle, too gentle. “I know that’s not what your father, and the rest of your people, told you, but…” He hesitated, didn’t seem sure how to formulate what he needed to say next. “You’ve read the Indirath M’nal. You have to admit that it’s not exactly clear on what happened back then.”

… So it was really as Pelmarag had put it, wasn’t it? Flaradnam, Grashgal and the others, they had _”turned the ugly reality of the long war, of the dwenda’s defeat and merciless exile from their home-world, into their own foundational myth.”_ And as a result, there were no traces left of the truth, beyond a few scraps buried here and there in the memories of the last remaining Helmsmen.

Egar’s heart ached for Archeth. She had two hundred years of experience to draw on, but he could still see that behind that wall of professionalism, she was floundering, thrown blind and deaf into the waves of a massive conflict she hadn’t even known had ever existed until barely a few months ago. Egar felt a flash of exasperation towards Grashgal and Flaradnam run through his body. _Seriously, guys, you couldn’t have left her some instructions somewhere, to be given to her in case the dwenda showed up again!?_

But then, Egar remembered what Archeth kept explaining about the toll the travel to Earth had taken on the Kiriath’s sanity, and how the longer they stayed, the worse it only seemed to become - and he wondered: by the time they left, had the remaining Kiriath even remembered that the dwenda had once truly lived, outside of their own legends as recounted, so vaguely, in their millennia-old Chronicles? They couldn’t warn against a danger whose very existence they’d forgotten, after all… 

Archeth nodded shortly. The words came out sharp and bitten when she summarised the facts. “All right. So there was a war, and the demon gods called on my people to help them. Let’s go back a bit, then: what was that war about in the first place?”

“Competition, mostly.”

Egar didn’t even blink this time. He just stared, along with Archeth and everybody else.

Ringil shrugged. “The Aldrain used magic to create a world-spanning empire, which pulled humanity out of the mud it lived in back then, and ushered it into an era of impressive social stability and economic prosperity. Bluntly put, humanity didn’t _need_ the Dark Court anymore, and the gods didn’t take it very well.”

“Oh.” Galat hummed. “Of course.” Archeth turned an expectant face towards him. “It’s what the books say, isn’t it? And we saw it in action with the woman Elith, too. The dwenda have been venerated by the people of the Naom plains for millennia, even though they’ve been missing all that time. If they were to come back, to become visible again, to exercise their magic in plain view and just be _here_ , available to everyone on a daily basis… Well, there would be very little room left for the worship of the Dark Court, would there?”

“I see…” Archeth was frowning once more. “So basically, the demon gods are being insecure territorial little tyrants, who don’t want the dwenda to come back and walk all over their flowerbeds once again? Except this time, they don’t have the Kiriath to help them anymore—”

She stopped abruptly. Froze.

Her anger had evaporated, and her voice was but a flat shadow of what it had been, when she asked, “Could they do it again?”

Galat seemed as much at a loss as everybody else. “Do what again, milady?”

“Bring _more_ Kiriath over?” Alarm ran through Egar’s body when he heard the badly repressed hope in Archeth’s voice. He glanced at Gil and saw his own dawning understanding and concern reflected in his eyes. _Shit…_ If Archeth got it into her head that the Sky Dwellers could put an end to her fated eternal solitude, then there was no telling how far she might go to obtain what she would now see as a _favour_ from them.

Galat obviously didn’t have the answer to that question. He turned to Ringil for help, but it was Pelmarag who broke the silence instead. He looked tense; his gaze was still fastened onto the map. His tone was measured. “They most likely _could_ try, yes. But I doubt they _would_.”

“Why not?” The words fused out of Archeth, sharp and hard like her knives.

Pelmarag didn’t seem to mind. He continued as carefully as before. “For two reasons. One should be obvious to you: this world already contains plenty of remnants of your people’s technology. It would be evident to the newly-stranded Black Folk that some of their own people had lived here before, and they would wonder how that happened. The Ahn Foi could lie to them and pretend it was just as much of an accident as this second time around, but that would be a shaky lie at best, considering the circumstances. A second shipwreck happening just years after the previous refugees left, and just in time to face the threat of the return of my people: those details would be very likely to encourage them to dig a little deeper, wouldn’t it?”

Archeth didn’t reply, didn’t move. She couldn’t deny the obvious answer.

Pelmarag frowned before continuing. “The second reason is one I cannot prove, I’m afraid. This world…” He tapped his fingernails on the tabletop, and tried again. “There’s a balance to this world. There are various forces working alongside each other, according to eternal laws. When the Ahn Foi brought the Black Folk into this mix, they interfered with those laws, and compromised that balance. I wasn’t born yet back when it happened, but I’ve been told that the change was a blatant one, as obvious and profound as the sun differs from the m— the stars. They both provide light, but you can’t mistake night for day. Nor does the time of day change the nature of the environment you live within, yet you cannot navigate the world in the exact same way by day and by night.”

Archeth was listening. There was a deep scowl on her face, and her jaw was tight, but she was listening.

Pelmarag glanced up at her, then looked back down at the map again. “Some among my people have studied your people’s technology, but the fundamental principles by which it operates keep eluding them. And…” His voice grew even more careful. “From what I have been told, it is my understanding that the Black Folk were equally frustrated by our magic, even though to us it is nothing more than a straightforward application of the physical laws of this world.”

At this point, Egar couldn’t help but wonder just how much Ringil had told Pelmarag about Archeth. The dwenda could hardly have chosen a better path to defuse Archeth’s obstinate hope, than by appealing to her Kiriath investigative and _scientific_ side.

“So what you’re saying,” she started slowly, clearly mulling over the matter even as she spoke, “is that the Kiriath were not just foreign to this world, but also incompatible with it? And that consequently, bringing them here threw the whole system irrevocably out of balance?”

“This is what I have been told, yes.”

Her hands trembled before she took a deep breath and laid them flat on the table. “All right, but is there any indication that the demon gods themselves were bothered by that change?”

Pelmarag hesitated. “Not to my knowledge, but we admittedly know precious little about the Ahn Foi to begin with.”

Ringil’s face was oddly closed, as though he were musing on something. In the brief silence that followed, Egar vaguely thought back to what he himself knew about the Sky Dwellers, and… Huh.

“You know,” he began slowly, staring at his fingers to better focus, “before he whisked me away to Ennishmin, Takavach explained that the Sky Dwellers are not free to act as they will. He mentioned _‘protocols that have to be observed, agreed rules, oaths and ties that bind’_. Sounds to me like they are just as much a part of that world balance we’re talking about as the dwenda or the Kiriath.” He looked up to where Archeth was frowning at him. “And so I imagine that anything that disrupts it would have consequences for them as well?”

Ringil finally spoke up then, softly but with assurance. “This is also my understanding, from some of my own interactions with them.”

Archeth closed her eyes and nodded. “I see… So the consensus is that they wouldn’t take the risk of bringing more Kiriath, or any other foreign people for that matter, into this world to help them fight off the dwenda?” She wasn’t trying to hide her dejection, but there was no self-pity in her voice or attitude either. She was just facing the facts, as bitter as they may be to her personally.

It was Ringil who answered, so gently again. “Until we’re given reason to believe otherwise, I think that would be a safe assumption to make, yes.” He didn’t say _sorry_ , but there was an apology in his voice anyway.

There was a longer pause, then, as Archeth, eyes still closed and hands laid palm down on the table, took deep, slow breaths. Nobody interrupted her, and Egar felt an odd wave of gratitude wash through him towards everyone else in the room. Back in Yhelteth, there would undoubtedly have been some arsehole courtier, or Jhiral himself, pressing her forward with no care for how upsetting this situation was for her personally. Here, Ringil and Shanta were keeping a compassionate eye on her, and the others were just waiting for the talks to resume. 

She was painfully too composed when she spoke again. “All right then. Let me try again to summarise our situation. The demon gods want to fight back the imminent return of the dwenda, but this time they don’t have any foreign powers to call upon for help. So instead, they have to satisfy themselves with the Empire, and the heritage the Kiriath left there, hence their resorting to mind games such as that little trick they played on us with the Ravensfriend. Did I get that right?”

Ringil and Pelmarag exchanged a look. Gil opened conciliatory hands. “As far as we know, yes.”

“So now, the Empire is stuck between the demon gods and the dwenda? Move one way and we piss off the Dark Court; move the other way, and we risk the wrath of the dwenda?” Her voice was tense. Next to her, Rakan didn’t look any happier.

Ringil sighed. “My lady… No offence meant, but this isn’t about the Empire. I don’t think the Dark Court gives a damn about the Empire. And it’s not about the League or anyone else either. It’s not about human nations and politics _at all_.”

“Right. It’s just about their stupid game, huh?”

“Exactly.” Ringil shrugged. “More precisely, it’s about not being kicked out of that game altogether by the return of the dwenda, like it already happened once.”

“But they won’t hesitate to use the Empire to fight that threat all the same?”

“They won’t hesitate to use anything and anyone they can manipulate to that end, yes.”

Archeth grimaced. “Awesome. Just awesome.” She balled her hands on the table, breathed deep. “You’re taking the same risks, right?”

“Obviously.” Ringil didn’t seem particularly worried. “I have no doubt that they are trying to undermine my current negotiations with the League, for starters.”

Archeth flattened her hands again. “Yeah, speaking of those negotiations…” She stared straight at the dwenda by Ringil’s side. “As I said, tell me about Ennishmin. Why Ennishmin? What’s so special about it? I was there a few months ago, and…” She shook her head helplessly. “There’s _nothing_ there!”

Pelmarag only looked at her. It was Ringil who answered. “If there was truly nothing there, you wouldn’t have _been_ there in the first place, would you?”

Egar caught his breath. _Dangerous move, that, Gil!_ If he got Archeth or Rakan started on the Khangset attack, this whole discussion might turn to disaster almost instantly. Luckily, Ringil seemed aware of the risk, since he immediately continued, “And surely, before you undertook such a trip, you gathered as much intelligence as you could?”

Archeth frowned and hesitated, but only for a moment, before starting carefully, “Yes, indeed. I talked to the Helmsmen, and they did give me some possible explanation.” Ringil nodded, encouraging her to continue. “According to them, Ennishmin was once the site of a great battle during the wars against the dwenda.” A frown appeared on both Ringil’s and Pelmarag’s faces, but neither stopped Archeth, who went on, “More precisely, Angfal said that some kind of… he called it a cataclysmic weapon, was used there? And that possibly, it’s the lasting effects of that weapon which turned the place into the dead swamp that it is?”

Ringil turned his head towards Pelmarag, who was still staring at the map of Ennishmin as steadfastly as ever. There was a short pause, as though Ringil was waiting for some sign, before he looked back at Archeth.

“The Helmsmen are almost right. Ennishmin was indeed the site of a great _victory_ for the Kiriath, though no _battle_ ever took place there.” Archeth blinked, but waited for Ringil to explain further. “What once stood there was nothing less than the capital city of the Aldrain empire on this continent, Enheed-idrishinir. It was the one city which had not been built to accommodate human beings, as it straddled the border between the real world and the Grey Places. As such, it could not be attacked by traditional means, if only because most people, whether human or Kiriath, could not even properly _see_ it, and because just as few could endure the stress that brushing against the Grey Places placed on their mind.”

 _But_ you _endured those Grey Places well enough._ Egar kept the thought to himself; now was not the time. Instead, he watched as Archeth nodded and asked, “So this is why the Kiriath had to engineer a specific weapon to deal with it?”

“Precisely.” Ringil’s expression was sober. A glance to the side told Egar that Pelmarag’s face was once again that stony mask of fake indifference, complete with the betrayal of a muscle twitching in his temple. “A very special weapon for a very special place. Wherever it was launched from, it fell from the sky, instantly obliterated the entire city, and tore open the very fabric of reality. Presumably, it’s that last effect which has prevented the area from properly healing ever since.”

“Like the Wastes, then?”

Ringil waved a hand. “Close enough, though not quite. One big difference is that the dwenda have left the Wastes mostly alone, but not so with Ennishmin. They’ve kept a constant watch on the area ever since it happened, and they’ve used as much of their power as they could to help with the recovery process without being spotted by the Kiriath or the locals. They say it’s much better now than it used to be, and that things keep improving even to this day. They hope that eventually the effects of the weapon will disappear on their own, or that they’ll be able to seal off the weapon itself and thus restrict its—”

“Wait, what!?” Almost all heads turned to Archeth at the sound of the horrified fascination in her voice. “The weapon is _still there?_ ”

Ringil seemed confused. “Well, yes. Where was it supposed to go?”

And now they were all staring at him. Egar felt small waves of nausea rocking his stomach. He’d always known that the Kiriath built to last, but still… The thought of a weapon that was still active after several millennia… The sheer scale of it was dizzying. _Fucking immortals!_

“I - I assumed it exploded on impact, or something of the sort!” Archeth was aghast.

“Oh…” A flash of understanding in Ringil’s gaze turned into a tight and sad expression. “No, I’m afraid it didn’t. It’s still there, at the heart of the deadest part of the marsh.”

… And just like that, just from the sudden speeding of Archeth’s breath, and the tense way her fingers curled on the table, Egar knew what the next sentence out of her mouth was going to be.

“I have to see it!”

Egar nearly let out a bark of laughter at the twin expressions of complete bafflement which appeared on Ringil’s and Pelmarag’s faces. Surprisingly enough, it was the dwenda who spoke up this time. “You… want to go there?”

“Yes.” Archeth said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I want to go there, and not just for the weapon either.” Her voice took on an edge of irritation once again. “I want you to _show_ me the place. Show me what I’m supposed to help you fight for. Show me your home. Show me your people. Just… _show_ me!”

Egar wasn’t particularly enthused at the idea of going back to Ennishmin, but he had to admit that she had a point. If she was expected to confront Jhiral and convince him to simply relinquish Ennishmin into the dwenda’s hands, then she had a right to at least see exactly who and what she would be working for.

Ringil and Pelmarag looked at each other for a moment. They seemed as nonplussed one as the other. In the end, Gil shook his head as he turned back to Archeth.

“I’ll admit we never expected that.” He raised placating hands when Archeth opened her mouth. “I’m not saying it can’t be done! But we’re going to need some time to organise it. Bringing a Kiriath over there…” He shook his head again, but there was wonder and amusement in his smile when he continued, “You sure can come up with the unlikeliest ideas, Archidi.”

She snorted. “As if _you_ had any right to talk, my lord Oh-hey-I’m-working-for-the-dwenda-now.”

Egar caught the glimpse of a quickly-repressed grin on Pelmarag’s lips - and felt an answering smile stretch his own mouth. _A sense of humour, heh? Maybe you’re not that bad of a motherfucker after all…_

***


	22. Ringil

Ashgrin is waiting for him right outside the door. Ringil notices that he _doesn’t_ check on Seethlaw before taking Ringil back up the stairs; is that a vote of confidence or… what?

_Wait and see._

Ashgrin stops in front of the first door on the upper level. “This is my room.” He points to the wall on the right side of the door, at about chest level. “You touch there, the bell rings.”

Automatically, Ringil’s hand shoots up, but Ashgrin stops it. “Not now.”

Ringil blinks, pulls his arm back. “Sorry.”

Ashgrin shrugs minutely and moves along the corridor towards Ringil’s room. He enters it first, once again seemingly trusting Ringil to follow him - though it’s not like Ringil could go anywhere else, really. Once inside, Ashgrin moves to the window and stands there, brow furrowed, eyes staring blindly at the faraway sea glittering in the rising Moon-light far below their feet. Ringil waits by his side, as patiently as he can…

It’s just a little unnerving the way Ashgrin’s posture doesn’t change in the least before he opens his mouth and starts speaking again as though he hadn’t been keeping silent for a while. “I do not wish to keep you locked inside this room. Will you promise not to leave it on your own?”

Ringil refrains from pointing out that technically, this would still constitute ‘keeping him locked inside the room’. He won’t, though, because there’s a small yet very real and significant difference between being forcefully kept inside a cage, and voluntarily remaining inside that cage, and he’s grateful the choice is being offered to him at all.

“Of course.” Still… “Is there any particular reason why you wish me to remain here in the first place?” Is it a matter that he himself is not being trusted, or that other people are not being trusted around him?

Ashgrin barely moves, only turns his head a little to take a closer look at Ringil. Silver crescents shine on his black eyes where they catch the Moon-light. When he doesn’t answer, Ringil takes a chance. “Is it Risgillen? You don’t want me running into her?” Pelmarag already hinted that she’s no danger, but Ringil still finds this hard to believe.

Ashgrin blinks. He seems faintly confused. “It would be best if you stayed away from her for the time being, yes, but she’s not the one I am concerned about.”

Ringil waits, then prompts again. “Then… Who?”

Ashgrin eventually lets a small sigh out. “Pelmarag is… not in a good mood these days.”

“Pel?” Ringil can’t hide his surprise. “I thought—” He catches himself. Whatever he thought, he clearly was wrong.

Ashgrin’s voice is even grimmer than usual when he confirms it. “In most other situations, he would be glad enough to submit to Seethlaw’s will, or to take my advice. But when Seethlaw’s safety is at risk…” He shakes his head, then turns it to pin Ringil with his blank stare. “None of us can predict what Pel will do if he concludes you’re too great a threat to Seethlaw after all.” A pause, and then, “Not even Pel himself, I fear.”

Ringil forces himself not to react. A threat to Seethlaw’s safety, huh? _You can’t exactly deny he’s got cause for concern there, Gil…_

“Look…” He hesitates, tries again. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I…” He flounders, one hand waving helplessly around.

Ashgrin is staring out the window once more. His voice is as toneless as ever when he counters, “None of us meant for any of this to happen, yet it still did. How we deal with the consequences is the matter at hand now.”

Ringil opens his mouth. “I…” _You what, Gil? You don’t want to hurt Seethlaw, but at the same time, you won’t let him do what he wants to do? I don’t think that’s going to go down very well right now, do you?_ He closes his mouth.

Ashgrin nods, minutely, as if to himself. He seems to address the sea when he talks, slowly, softly, seeming to choose each word carefully before speaking it.

“You don’t understand the situation you have been thrown into. You don’t know about the thousands of years of history which came before this day. You don’t know about the events which made Seethlaw, and Risgillen, and Pelmarag, and all the rest of us still alive, into who and what we are. You don’t know about the people whose lives and deaths changed us, shaped us. It could even be easily argued that you don’t know Seethlaw at all, that the Seethlaw you met, and spent those few days with, is but a mirage, a distortion of the real one. And…”

He frowns, turns his gaze onto Ringil once more. “One could also say that he made the same mistake with you. Taking you into the Grey Places so quickly and for so long…” He shakes his head. “The very fact that he would do so proves how addled he was.”

Ringil strives to follow. “Too much time spent in the real world?”

Ashgrin nods again. “Yes. The Illwrack gift is as much a blessing as a curse, and, well…” A sigh. “Seethlaw never cared to learn to control that side of it.”

This time, Ringil has no idea whatsoever what Ashgrin is talking about, so he keeps quiet.

When the silence lingers on, though, and Ashgrin seems lost in his contemplation of the Moon-lit landscape, Ringil breaks it again. “Is there anyone who could tell me about all those things I don’t know?”

“Any one of us.”

More silence passes, until Ringil realises he didn’t ask quite the right question. “Is there anyone who _will_ tell me about those things?”

“Should you stay around, it will obviously have to be done, yes. We haven’t discussed it yet.”

“So… I just wait in the dark?” He tries, really tries not to make the question sound like the resentful accusation that it truly is.

Ashgrin doesn’t seem ruffled. “I agree that it’s not ideal. I apologise for that.”

Ringil sighs and runs a hand into his hair, pushing stray strands of it back from his face. “I’ll take that over being sent back” — not home — “to the real world.”

Ashgrin’s voice tenses with a slight warning. “I cannot promise that won’t happen still.”

Ringil huffs, almost grins. “I’d figured, yeah.” He’d apparently been wrong about who might push for his eviction, but he’d been aware all along that he was an unwanted guest. “I’ll do my best to stay out of sight then. Try not to walk on anybody’s toes and get myself thrown out.”

He would swear - though it might just as well be wishful thinking - that there’s a fleeting trace of approval in Ashgrin’s eyes when the dwenda glances at him before answering, “Let them come to you on their own terms. Give them time.”

_Pretty much what I told Seethlaw back there…_ “Understood.”

Without warning, Ashgrin turns around and points to the tray of food on the desk, suddenly all business-like again. “You haven’t eaten anything. Is something wrong with the food?”

Ringil can’t help but snort. “I don’t think you guys could come up with anything even half as bad as some of the stuff I’ve had to do with at times. Not even if you tried.” He shakes his head. “No, the food is great. I just couldn’t eat.”

“And now?”

Ringil reaches for a piece of bread, bites half-heartedly into it.

… His stomach instantly growls back to life.

The ghost of a smile floats on Ashgrin’s lips before he walks away. “Good evening and good night, then, Ringil. I will be in my room if you urgently need something, though it would be best if you could wait until morning. Please try to… stay out of sight, until then?”

Ringil nods and salutes with the rest of the bread in his hand. “Will do. Good night to you too.”

The dwenda steps through the door and is gone.

**

Ringil was _planning_ on sleeping that night. With a full stomach, and the reassurance that Seethlaw is as alive and well as could be expected under the circumstances, he assumed that he would have no problem falling and remaining asleep.

It’s not to be so. As soon as his head touches the pillow and his eyes close, he feels the whirlwind of uncontrolled thoughts pulling at him again, dragging him into a spiral of panicky suppositions and possibilities. What if Seethlaw tries to kill himself again? What if Pelmarag - that enigma Ringil can’t wrap his head around - decides, in the unfathomable depths of his alien mind, to get rid of Ringil after all? Would anyone stand up for him then? Would he at least be offered the choice to go back to the real world? Ah but no, that wouldn’t do, would it, because he knows too much about their plans—

“Lights on!”

Ringil can hear the screeching edge in his own voice as he sits up and flings the covers away. He ignores the twinge of dizziness in his head, and tries to focus on something good, something calming, something that would bring him peace. But… A hollow chuckle rises from his chest. There’s no such thing, is there? Even the knowledge that Seethlaw is still alive in this reality - the very basis of this whole madness - is tainted by the fact that the dwenda might not _remain_ alive, might not even _want_ to keep living, and all because of Ringil—

“Dammit!”

Ringil stands on unsteady legs. He needs to _stop_ thinking! He needs to—

… Books.

Books everywhere his gaze lands.

Perfect!

He trips his way to the free armchair, lets himself fall into it, and takes a deep breath to calm both his nerves and the lurching in his stomach. Maybe eating so much at once wasn’t such a good idea after all… Carefully, he reaches for the pile of books on the other chair and brings back an armful of them. He plops them into his lap, starts examining them.

Immediately, a sense of very odd, very detached wonder fills him. These books… As with everything else in the room, they are a motley collection, with seemingly no rhyme nor reason to their being gathered together, but…

It’s with reverence now that Ringil lightly, so lightly, drags his fingertips over the cover of a volume so old it would have crumbled to dust centuries ago in the real world. He opens it and turns the pages as carefully as he would handle the finest crystal sculpture. It’s _so fucking old_ that it’s written in actual Myrlic, not even in antiquated Naomic! It’s a collection of folk tales; Ringil recognises some of them as the obvious ancestors to some of the children’s stories commonly told all over the Naom plains.

In the real world, such a book would be a priceless treasure, a cherished artifact from a long-ago forgotten past. Yet here, it is nothing more than yet another item haphazardly stowed away in a tottering pile.

Ringil stares around him, at the books, the rolls, the various works of art, the mismatched furniture. This room… The contents of this room would make any historian swoon, anyone with even the most lukewarm love for the past, for what came before and was forever lost to the sands of time.

Yet, to whoever gathered them here, it seems to be simply some kind of personal collection of souvenirs accumulated over the centuries.

_Over the millennia, even, Gil._

Rubbing elbows with the Kiriath, Ringil somewhat learnt to apprehend the sheer depth of the chasm existing between immortals and human beings. He listened to the stories of their past wanderings, the tale of the settling of An-Monal, the loss of the tribes who went further and never gave sign of life again. He heard in their voices, read in their body language, how at barely two hundred years of age, Archeth was still very much an ignorant child in their eyes.

At the same time, the Kiriath kept remarkably few records of their history. There is the Indirath M’nal and… Well, that’s about it, isn’t it? Everything else that came later merely expounded on that one original - some might even say foundational - tale. A tale that barely mentioned the Aldrain, and the desperate war for survival the Kiriath fought against them. A tale written centuries after the facts and, Anasharal hinted, already twisted the historical truth in favour of promulgating a myth more likely to sustain the will to live of the Kiriath, a people shipwrecked in a world that wasn’t their own, and steadily losing hope of ever returning home, a little more with each passing century.

The Kiriath couldn’t afford to dwell on the past, so instead they kept projecting themselves into the future, taking humanity along for the ride. They kept starting new projects, blithely abandoning whichever ones refused to progress fast enough, until in the end, they ran out of breath, they couldn’t keep going through that furious plunge into the future, a future, _any_ future, and they cut themselves loose, buried themselves into the ultimate scheme, the last flight forward - the most-likely doomed trip home.

Meanwhile, the enemies they had exiled, the Aldrain, had retreated to the Grey Places, but never forgotten where they came from, never truly given up on that _very same_ deep-seated hope of one day, maybe, going home as well. They kept visiting the real world, maintained however tenuous a grasp on its evolution - the changes in the languages, in the politics, in the social mores…

And some, apparently, outright invited the real world into their home in exile.

Fascinated, Ringil inspects book after book, marvelling in the diversity of them. They seem to come from everywhere: the League territories, but also the Empire, the Majak plains, Shaktur… Some are even written in languages Ringil cannot begin to recognise. He wonders: can the dwenda truly read all of them? Or are they collecting them blindly, like Shalak collects anything that looks like it might be Aldrain in origin? Either way, the breadth of cultural diversity and the depth of historical significance gathered in this room are simply breath-taking.

In the end, Ringil picks out a collection of fairy tales of the Eighth Horse Tribe, written in old Tethanne he can barely decipher. The Eighth Tribe was eradicated long before he was born, and their existence nearly wiped out from Imperial memory. But here, in his hands, lies a vibrant testament to who they once were, and as he reads, they seem to emerge from the fog of the forgotten past, to tell their own stories, in their own voices, straight into the ear of this stranger from faraway lands, who will now carry this sketchy, almost insubstantial knowledge of who they once were, wherever he goes, for as long as he lives...

**

Ringil spends the night reading. Whenever he lays his head back and tries to close his eyes to rest them, the whirlwind of thoughts grabs him again. It’s a little, he muses, like being caught in the aspect storm, except instead of despairing over what could, might, should have been, it’s fear, almost panic, which runs through his veins and drums about his skull. There’s no regret, only a quickly-building terror, even over things that never happened, or took place so long ago there’s nothing Ringil could have done, or could do now, about them.

At least, though, it’s not the Grey Places, with their endless parade of gut-wrenching ghosts that can never be sent away, only ignored as best as one can endure. Here, the fear can be pushed back by focusing on something else, and so Ringil focuses, again and again, on the book in his hands, forcing his eyes to keep reading, no matter how much they burn from grittiness, no matter that he more and more often has to re-read the same sentence before his brain manages to make any sense of it.

He doesn’t notice when dawn comes. He just knows that one moment the sky outside is still black as ink, and the next the clouds are bathed in a fragile, clear blue light. The shadow of the cliff reaches far out to sea, but beyond it, the water is already shimmering coldly under the first rays of the early morning sun.

Setting the book aside, Ringil stands and stretches carefully. He’s been hit by bouts of nausea more and more often over the night and he’s feeling distinctly unbalanced as he walks to the window. He gratefully rests his hands and his forehead against the invisible glass, before taking a good look outside, up at the clouds, down at the sea and the beach.

He frowns as he notices something odd. _That can’t be right._ And yet… It’s still dark down there in the shadows, but there’s no doubt: the sea is not where it should be! He blinks. A layer of mental confusion settles on top of the light-headedness. He has no doubt about it, and yet how can it be? The sea shore was much closer yesterday evening, when he and Ashgrin were standing here staring at it. Now, judging by where it splashes upon the rocks, it has visibly retreated several dozen yards, which…

He closes his eyes and resists the urge to shake his head. It doesn’t make any sense! _Finally lost your mind for good, heh, Gil?_

No… No, he doesn’t think so.

… But then again, he _wouldn’t_ think so if he had, would he?

And there it is again, the maddening spiral, where each thought seems determined to lead him into uncertainty, to make him doubt everything, including and beginning with himself, his own reason, his own memories.

He drags a trembling hand over his face, takes a deep breath. He’s exhausted. He’s lost. He’s nauseous. He wants to sleep, so badly, but he knows that it’s not slumber that awaits him if he goes and lies down. He needs…

He needs…

— He could cry when the door bell chimes quietly.

_Yes, please!_

“Come in.” His voice is a croak, pushing as it must around the sudden block of pure, rock-hard relief in his throat. A visitor means someone who can send him to sleep, stop the helpless descent into madness, calm his mind and body even if only for a few hours. He doesn’t care how pathetic it is that he should be willing to beg for one of those hated Aldrain mind-tricks. All he cares about is that he’s going crazy, and the dwenda can help, and his pride is not going to be worth a damn if he can’t think straight anymore anyway, or if they have to send him back to the real world for his own good.

He turns around, expecting to see impassive Ashgrin, or unpredictable Pelmarag, either grinning or scowling or looking like he hasn’t slept in a couple of centuries.

His breath locks in his chest, and his stomach drops right through the floor, when his gaze settles instead on Seethlaw’s carefully guarded face.

The dwenda has stopped a few feet inside the room. He’s wrapped his arms around himself. He’s not talking, not moving. Not smiling, not frowning. He’s clad in the same leather-mail armour everyone else has been wearing, but it looks _wrong_ on him, because the only time he’s ever stood in front of Ringil dressed that way was—

Ringil pushes the thought away. He doesn’t want to remember that night, and he doesn’t want to wonder if Seethlaw wearing the damn armour now means anything, and if so, what.

So instead he stares in the white face, takes in the way Seethlaw is just looking at him, with an expression so impressively neutral that Ringil can almost feel in his own nerves the effort it costs the dwenda to pretend so badly to be calm and in control of himself.

It’s that realisation which gives Ringil the impetus to move. Before he can think any better, in a few quick and steady-enough steps, he’s in front of Seethlaw, and his hands are on each side of the pale face, fingertips digging into the silky hair. He pulls while leaning forward, and Seethlaw doesn’t resist. His lips open readily under Ringil’s, and—

— And the taste of Seethlaw is in Ringil’s mouth again, and for a few moments, everything is right again.

There’s tongue, lips, teeth. Whimpers and growls and sharp breaths through noses. Seethlaw’s hands, shaking as they settle on Ringil’s waist - too lightly, but at least he’s not pushing Ringil away and that’s enough for now.

Ringil is the one who pulls back, when a new, powerful wave of dizziness threatens to sweep his legs from under him, and he has to grab onto Seethlaw’s shoulders to hold himself up. His eyes close on their own; he finds himself taking deep gulps of air, as he tries to convince his heart to stop beating so fast, and his stomach to stop twisting itself into knots.

“Gil?” Seethlaw’s voice rumbles in Ringil’s ears. “Gil, what—”

Ringil reflexively shakes his head, and has to bite a groan back when this only makes his nausea even worse. “’s nothing. Just… bit dizzy.”

“Oh.”

Seethlaw slips one hand in the hair at the back of Ringil’s head, and guides it down onto his shoulder. Ringil complies, easily, gratefully. He sighs when the dwenda’s other arm reaches all the way around his waist and pulls their bodies flush close. His hold is suddenly firm, which is good because it’s Ringil’s hands which are trembling now as they weakly try to hang onto Seethlaw’s shoulders.

Then the dwenda’s hand on Ringil’s head moves lower, starts stroking his back in slow, smooth circular motions - and Ringil feels a sob escape him as he buries his face into the crook of Seethlaw’s neck.

Everything is Seethlaw; his entire world has been reduced to Seethlaw, and, despite the nausea, despite the ever-threatening spiral in his mind, it feels so good it _hurts!_

Cool alien fabric under his cheek, long free hair falling around his head, body hard and firm against his, strong arms holding up his shuddering frame… And that scent, musk and spices… Seethlaw’s breath in Ringil’s ear is not quite as slow and steady as it could and should be, but it’s still calm enough that Ringil can use it as an anchor to bring back some modicum of order into his own derailing mind and body.

Everything is Seethlaw.

Everything is Seethlaw, and Ringil feels himself slipping away as his consciousness sinks into the dwenda’s presence, scatters and diffuses until he doesn’t know where he ends and where Seethlaw begins - and it should scare him, he knows that, but it doesn’t, and he can’t summon the will to be wary, because he can’t remember why he should be.

All he can remember is that Seethlaw was dead, and Seethlaw almost died again, and yet Seethlaw is alive right now, and he’s right here, and—

— And to hell with everything else.

**


	23. Seethlaw

Fragile.

He’s so fragile.

His _essence_ is unyielding; you’ve known that from the very first time you saw him, and he’s confirmed it in so many ways since.

But this essence was twisted. Instead of being nurtured as it should have been, it was denied, dismissed, rejected. It couldn’t be destroyed, though the humans certainly tried their best to achieve just that, but it was… compromised. They broke his heart. They broke his mind. They broke his trust in the future. They couldn’t break his very nature, but they took away from him everything he needed to grow into his full potential.

And so now he’s fragile, so very fragile.

He still has the _capacity_ to become a great and terrible Dark King, if he only allowed himself to. The akiya saw it, and you see it too, anew every time you look, _truly_ look at him. It’s there; it’s a very real possibility. All the damage that’s been done to him cannot erase it, but—

His fingers on your chest flutter blindly. He mumbles a few indistinct words into your shoulder, and you hear his breath speeding up where it rushes along the line of your collarbones.

You press your hand a little stronger between his shoulder blades, turn your head just enough to whisper a reassuring hush into his hair. His body relaxes once more against yours, sinks peacefully again into the mattress. He goes back to sleep, and you go back to your wondering.

He’s fragile - but that’s not the real problem, is it? The problem is not with him.

He knows what he wants. He’s aware of his limitations, but he doesn’t let them stop him. He wasn’t properly trained or nurtured, but that didn’t hold him back from becoming everything he _could_ become on his own. He has no magic, and his prowess with a sword, as impressive as it is, isn’t anywhere enough to threaten you - and yet he never quits, never backs down. You had to knock him out that first night, and since then, he’s kept relentlessly coming at you, challenging you, pushing you around both in words and in acts.

You mistook that as a sign that he wasn’t meant to be your Champion, because that’s not how it’s supposed to be. That’s not how it should work, how it did work with… with. _He_ too always asked for more, yes, but there was never any question in his mind, any doubt in his behaviour, that you would obviously give him what he demanded, that you would fulfil every request he might formulate. There was never any give-and-take; the very idea of it was sacrilegious, anathema. There was only your King leading and you following, your battle marshal issuing orders and you obeying them.

So when Ringil started arguing with you, you mistook that as condemnation. When he tried to push you into alternative paths to reach your goal, you thought he meant for you to abandon your project altogether. That was what it would have meant if _he_ had acted in such ways: “Stop wasting my time and yours with this.” And you _wanted_ to obey, because that is your duty as his Prince, but you _couldn’t,_ because bringing the Aldrain back to the real world is just as much your obligation as the head of Clan Illwrack.

You were trapped between the two most fundamental aspects of who you are, what you were born to do - and so you concluded that you must have been mistaken after all, that he couldn’t be your King, because no Illwrack Changeling could oppose the Illwrack mission; that just made no sense!

And indeed, you were wrong, but not in the way you thought. You misunderstood what he meant with his words and actions because you couldn’t recognise them. And you couldn’t recognise them because you forgot what they taught you when you were still a child: that in this tainted world - tainted in ways you can’t distinguish because you yourself were born to it, but tainted nonetheless - Heroes grow up twisted and distorted if they are abandoned to their own devices, if they are not found in time to properly protect them and guide them throughout their childhood and youth, when they so vitally need it.

You forgot, and you compared him to the only King you’ve ever known, the one Changeling you nurtured yourself - and so, obviously, inevitably, you misunderstood.

He _is_ your Champion. He’s told you so himself. _”You want Ennishmin? I’ll give you Ennishmin.”_

But he’s a _different_ kind of Champion, because the world imposed limitations on him before you even had a chance to meet him. _”No more war, for fuck’s sake, that’s all I’m asking for!”_

No more war… You remember what Grace-of-Heaven told you about him, about the Hero of Gallows Gap, the Saviour of Trelayne, the fearless warrior who fought the Lizards with a grin on his face. The officer who turned his back on a military career, whether in the League or the Empire, even though it would undoubtedly have taken him to the highest places - just because he couldn’t stand to start using his sword on _humans_ again.

Because he was broken.

And he’s still broken now. _”No war, Seethlaw.”_ That’s what he begged of you. No war… No war. No sacrifices. Not a drop of human blood falling to the ground, because he cannot tolerate that thought anymore.

And if that’s what he wants, then you in turn want to give it to him! You just… don’t know how?

War and blood have _always_ been the way. It’s the _only_ way humans understand. This is why all your people’s Kings were warriors first and foremost: because no matter what other types of power a leader may hold, when all is said and done, humans will only and always bow to the greatest fighter they can find among themselves.

War is the path. Blood is the gate. And yet… _”I’ll give you Ennishmin. Just not the way you would go at it.”_ What does he mean by that? What _could_ he mean by that? Are they just words he said in blind denial, because he’s been broken beyond hope? Has he become _too_ fragile to be trusted with such a task?

… Or does he really have other means in mind, and _you_ are the one who is too fragile, too afraid, to trust him?

When he yelled in anger at you, you thought he wanted you dead. When he said you were a good enough reason for him to come back to Hannais M’hen, you thought he wanted to eliminate you and all the work you had accomplished there. When he made you promise to meet him in Trelayne, you thought he wanted to kill you.

And when he failed to deliver on those unspoken promises… You took the matter into your own hands, rather than stepping back and asking yourself if maybe, just maybe, you’d been wrong, you’d misinterpreted at some point.

Who was fragile, and who was strong, then? Who was broken and who was whole? And right now…

Right now…

Who’s terrified and who’s determined? Who’s begging for a chance to put some alternate plan into action, and who’s floundering in the dark of his own head?

He’s fragile, yes - but the real problem is that you don’t trust _yourself_ to be the strength he needs, isn’t it? You want him to be your King - no, you _know_ he is your King - but you don’t trust yourself to have faith in him. It’s not _his_ brokenness you’re afraid of; it’s yours.

And you know why, too. How could you not? How could you forget that in the end, it was _your_ weakness which brought about _his_ downfall, and your entire people’s with it? He asked for much, so much, yes, but it was only commensurate to the task you’d burdened him with; you had no excuse to fall short of his rightful expectations, to stumble and flail in the execution of the duties he had entrusted you with.

But you did, and the price was cataclysmic, and now you’re scared to the marrow of your bones that you might fail Ringil and your people just as profoundly once again.

He’s fragile but determined and extremely capable all the same. He wants to free your people even when he disagrees with you on how to do it. And above all, he believes in you no matter how weak you’ve revealed yourself to be to him, no matter how much you keep disappointing him at times.

He’s ready to lead, despite all those obstacles.

… Are you ready to follow him, wherever he takes you?

***


	24. Ringil

Ringil smiles before he even fully wakes up.

He smiles because there’s a solid shoulder under his head, and a faintly beating chest under his hand, and an arm holding him close to a thin, hard body - and _that_ scent all around him.

_Seethlaw._

Ringil smiles. It’s stupid, but he doesn’t care. For a moment, as he hangs onto that twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness, that one name, that one presence, are enough to make him happy, and so he smiles.

Even when his brain shakes itself loose from the chains of slumber, one by one, Ringil can’t force himself to do much more than open his eyes, sigh, and stretch his arms and legs before wrapping them more tightly still all around Seethlaw. There are so many matters to attend to, he knows that, but they can wait. For now, he’s perfectly satisfied lying on the bed, half on top of Seethlaw, with the dwenda’s arm curled around him and his hand pressing softly between Ringil’s shoulder blades.

Seethlaw is the one who eventually breaks the silence. Ringil feels him take a deep breath, before the melodic voice flows out, on a whisper. “What did you mean exactly?”

Ringil grins to himself a little more broadly, and wonders if Seethlaw is even aware of his habit of asking questions out of the blue, with no frame of reference. He did it on their very first night - _”Why did you do it?”_ \- and several times since. It should be infuriating, but Ringil finds he doesn’t mind it at all.

“When?”

“When you said you would give me Ennishmin.”

Ringil shrugs his free shoulder, the one not digging into the bed, and watches as his fingers leisurely travel up Seethlaw’s chest, over the strong and supple black material of his armour. “Just that.”

He can almost hear the dwenda frown in confusion. “But… without a war?”

Ringil’s smile tenses. He rubs his cheek into Seethlaw’s shoulder, feels the soft scratching of his own stubble catching onto the leather-mail. “There’s this thing called ‘diplomacy’. It can achieve impressive results if you know what you’re doing.”

Seethlaw doesn’t sound convinced in the least. “Are you suggesting we just ask the Emperor to please cede Ennishmin to us?”

“Heh.” The mental image of Jhiral trying to deal with Seethlaw, or any of the other dwenda, is admittedly a funny one, but Ringil is no fool. He knows it will take more than just the Aldrain showing up to force Jhiral’s hand. “Yes and no.” He yawns. “Asking, yes. But not without some good arguments. Turns out, though, you do have some pretty good ones.”

His hand travels up some more, finds the cool bare skin on Seethlaw’s neck, starts stroking it. Seethlaw’s whole body shivers under and against Ringil’s. His voice is just a little bit rougher when he speaks again.

“What kind of arguments do you have in mind, if not threats of violence? In my experience, those are the only ones humans understand and truly respect.”

And there it is again, the calm, almost matter-of-fact judgement in his tone… There was a time when it would have spurred a defensiveness for his fellow men in Ringil’s mind, but not anymore. He can admit now that Seethlaw simply speaks the truth, and that after two years of deliberately and, most importantly, successfully using his own type of violence to achieve his ends, Ringil is in no position to argue.

So he just hums, and explains, “True, but the thing is: you have _already_ demonstrated all the violence you’re going to need.”

There’s a moment of confused silence, and then, “How could that be? I have never interacted with the Emperor, or his interests, in any way.” Ringil absolutely loves the way Seethlaw’s throat rumbles under his fingertips whenever the dwenda speaks…

“Not you, no. But some of the others did.”

He waits for Seethlaw to understand what he’s talking about. In the meantime, he tilts his head back a little, and watches as his hand reaches higher still to graze against the line of the dwenda’s jaw.

“… Oh.” There it is. “The failed assault.”

“Yes.” It figures that neither Seethlaw nor any of the other Aldrain, straightforward warriors that they are, ever realised the nature of the advantage that the Khangset disaster accidentally granted them, but Ringil sees it only too well. And of course, “I have a friend who works as an adviser to the Emperor. She’ll know how to make the best of it.”

Archeth will be thoroughly _pissed_ about the whole business; Ringil has no doubt about that. He also has no doubt that she’ll come around to his point of view once he lays all the options out for her to examine.

“And the League? I made promises.” _And I keep my promises._

Ringil shrugs again. A coldness falls over him, turns his voice harsh. “You made promises to arseholes and bastards who don’t deserve your integrity.” He blindly lays a finger across Seethlaw’s mouth when he feels him take a breath to protest. “And _I_ made no such promises. If you will trust me, I will get you out of this without making a liar out of you.” Dealing with people and customs he’s known all his life, on his home turf of Trelayne, will be nothing compared to the constant guessing and balancing job he had to do back in Yhelteth to keep Anasharal’s disparate little cabal from falling apart over the many long months it took to prepare the expedition to the Hironish Isles.

There’s silence again, as Seethlaw ponders Ringil’s words. His lips are cool and smooth under Ringil’s fingers - but he doesn’t use their presence there to attempt to turn the situation into anything else, and with that, Ringil finds he has the answer to a question he didn’t even know he was asking.

It would be a bad idea anyway. Seethlaw tried to get himself killed at Ringil’s hands barely, what, two days ago? Three? Ringil’s sense of time is shaky, but it was not long ago, that’s for sure. Even if Seethlaw is obviously feeling well enough to walk and talk, Ringil remembers only too well the confusion and violence which tainted and clouded their interactions the last time they fucked, in Pranderghal, and how he promised himself he would sort this out before trying again.

At the moment, however, he very much doubts that Seethlaw would be in any proper shape to deal with such matters and questions. It’s better to wait until such a time that the dwenda’s emotions are not _quite_ as volatile, and so, with a sigh, Ringil pulls his hand back, and settles it again in the crook of Seethlaw’s neck. This is safe, and it’s enough, for now at least. 

“You…” Seethlaw sounds hesitant. Ringil waits. “You didn’t… seem to approve of the concept of the Aldrain returning. Of humans and dwenda living together.”

Ah, yes. Ringil remembers his own words, back there in the heart of the marsh, in the shadow of the Kiriath weapon. _”Domination by the Aldrain. I think I’ve got some sense of what that’ll be like.”_ That had briefly angered Seethlaw. _”That’s a stupid thing to say. There is no reason human and dwenda can’t co-exist as we did once before.”_ And then Ringil had thrown those very words back into his face, upon first laying eyes upon the exemplars. _”You motherfuckers. You fucking piece of shit. You cunt. No reason human and dwenda cannot co-exist? What do you call that then? What kind of fucking co-existence is that?”_

Seethlaw had pointed out that it was no worse than the cages and… Ringil still wouldn’t say that he agrees, but at least now he realises that he can’t expect a race of immortal beings to understand why an eternity of emotional agony is so horrifying to simple humans, so much worse than the quiet certainty and cold finality of death. _Different frames of reference, different concepts of what appropriate punishment is…_

“It’s not that simple,” he patiently explains. “It’s not just a matter of approving or disapproving. It’s… It’s a matter of reaching a compromise that works for _everyone._ ”

Again, the frown is audible in Seethlaw’s voice. “There’s no such thing. Compromises are always flawed, imperfect, by their very design and concept.”

“True.” Ringil’s thumb is rubbing along Seethlaw’s neck; he’s not even sure who he’s trying to soothe the most with that gesture. “But finding the best compromise, or at least one of the better ones, is what diplomacy is about.”

“And… You would willingly engage in this endeavour? You would accept to shoulder the task of negotiating with your human compatriots, to mediate in favour of a people you owe nothing to?” There’s a _hope_ permeating Seethlaw’s voice now, wild and powerful and yet so fragile, so brittle, shining through no matter how much Ringil can tell he’s trying to hide it, reducing his words to a breathless and shivering whisper - and it turns Ringil’s heart over.

His hand wraps around the side of Seethlaw’s neck, large and rough and protective, a promise he doesn’t know how to express otherwise. “Yeah.” The answer fuses easily out of his mouth in an echoing whisper. “That’s what I offered, isn’t it?”

It doesn’t work as intended. He feels even more tension creeping into Seethlaw’s body before he hears the growing conflict in his too-guarded voice. “You didn’t seem to even consider the possibility, back in Ennishmin.” And Ringil understands: the dwenda _wants_ to believe; he’s just too _afraid_ to.

Ringil‘s chest clenches; he sighs. He pushes himself up on an elbow, so he can look down into the white face. His hand moves up to cup Seethlaw’s jaw, and he stares into the deep black eyes as he explains in a soft and tight murmur, “That was then. This is now. And a lot of things have changed in the meantime. Then, you’d just dragged me through the Grey Places, and you didn’t give me any time to adjust before telling me all about invading the world, conquering humanity, starting wars, sacrificing people. When I saw those mounted heads…”

He briefly closes his eyes, takes a shuddering breath. His hand is trembling against Seethlaw’s cool skin when he opens his eyes again and holds the blank gaze, and finishes in a pleading voice, “It was just _too much._ Can you understand that?”

Seethlaw is looking up at him, brow furrowed. He doesn’t move, doesn’t answer, but he’s wearing that expression he has when he’s sincerely trying to follow Ringil’s reasoning, and that’s enough for now, enough for Ringil to keep going.

“I was tired. I was confused. I was scared, and angry. And above all…” Ringil allows his thumb to briefly brush against the corner of the pale lips. “Above all, I felt powerless, and I _hate_ that. Here you were, telling me about your plan to tear my world apart, and you had it all prepared, and there was _nothing_ I could do to stop it, to protect _my_ people. And the more I tried to explain to you, the less you seemed to understand. I was… I was _desperate,_ Seethlaw. And when I’m desperate, I fight back.” Ringil lets out a thin, humourless smile. “It’s the only thing I know how to do: fight back.”

Seethlaw blinks slowly. “And… what changed, since then?” There’s an expectation in his voice. Ringil can’t identify it, can’t tell exactly what the dwenda would like him to say, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll just tell the truth, because he’s learnt by now that when all is said and done, this is the one thing Seethlaw needs from him above and beyond everything else.

He bents one corner of his mouth into a rueful grin. “I figured the situation is not as desperate as I thought.”

“How so?”

“I had time to calm down.” _To say the least. Two years of running away, and then hours of lying half-dead in the middle of a silent battlefield…_ “To think things over. And I realised that you never _meant_ for me to feel trapped like that. That you wanted to _talk_. That you were willing to, well, compromise.” Seethlaw shivers under his touch and Ringil can’t help himself: he leans down, plants a kiss on the cool white lips. When he pulls back, Seethlaw is staring at him with an almost painful intensity. Ringil swallows and concludes, “So I thought I’d take a chance, since, you know…” His throat is closing up. “The alternative was… losing you.”

_And losing you hurt. It hurt so much, you have no idea!_

Seethlaw closes his eyes, takes several unsteady breaths. His hand on Ringil’s back is shaking.

Ringil leans his forehead down onto Seethlaw’s, and closes his eyes in his turn. He stays here, swallowing Seethlaw’s ebbing tension, feeding him his own, waiting for them both to regain their footing. His palm has slid back down to wrap around the side of the white throat, and once again he can feel the pulse fluttering there, too fast and too shallow - but he’s not worried this time.

They just need to wait. Give each other enough space and time to settle into this new, precariously balanced situation. And trust - trust themselves, trust the two of them together, trust this new present, this new offered future, and even, at some level Ringil doesn’t quite understand yet but growing more obvious and present with each day, trust the very real magic which brought them together in the first place.

_”I see what the akiya saw… I see what you could become.”_

… It is never too late to become a Changeling, is it?

**


	25. Archeth

Archeth couldn’t sit down. She didn’t need the krin to keep her up tonight; her brain was doing just fine on its own, fired up as it was by the day’s events. If anything, she could have done with some flandrijn, if she’d wanted to calm down.

 _If_ she’d wanted to calm down - but she didn’t.

When they had come back to the Embassy, Egar had tried to follow her to her rooms, silently offering to let her unload on him as usual, but she’d sent him away. She’d sent _everyone_ away, save for a single servant whom she’d tasked with bringing her a light dinner. Everyone else was to leave her alone, with no exceptions.

She needed space and time to _think._

Too often over the two centuries of her existence, she’d felt like her life was being turned over in some irremediable way. When her mother had died, Archeth had long known that humans did just that: they died and left you behind, alone and cold, forever - and yet on that day, it had seemed like a brand-new lesson she was just learning for the very first time. Back then, she had thought she would never again feel so lost as she did then, left on her own to face a world which made no sense anymore without her mother in it.

Prophet’s balls, had she been wrong about that!

Again and again, she developed friendships with humans, grew close, became accustomed to having them in her life - only for them to disappear, sometimes early and suddenly, sometimes slowly fading away after many decades, but always, always leaving her behind, alone with that hole in her heart where they had been.

And so, almost without noticing, she slowly turned her attention more towards the Kiriath than the humans. The Kiriath were immortal; the Kiriath would never leave her. Her mother had told her so, hadn’t she? _”Your father will always love you.”_ There was safety in the love and friendship she shared with her father’s people. Accidents happened, of course, especially when they went to war alongside whoever was the Emperor that decade, but those deaths were few and far between. She could still _rely_ on the Kiriath in a way she couldn’t with the humans.

When the Lizards came, they shattered that illusion to smithereens.

The Kiriath fell under the Scaled Folk’s attacks almost as quickly as the humans did. In barely more than a couple of years, they lost _so many_ of their own, it was staggering simply to contemplate. And to Archeth, it made no sense! The Kiriath had never been invulnerable, she had always known that, but they weren’t supposed to die so easily either! It wasn’t supposed to be _possible_ to kill them in such numbers so swiftly!

But the Lizards didn’t care for the rules Archeth had held onto to keep herself and her life together, and so they came and smashed them, just like that. They destroyed the indestructible defences the Kiriath built, and they killed the immortal Black Folk themselves in droves.

They even killed Archeth’s father in the end.

And she thought then that surely, that was the absolute worst turn her life could ever take, wasn’t it? There were no further depths of despair and confusion for her to plumb, were there? Apart from her own life, she had lost everything she had ever had to lose… hadn’t she?

… A couple of years later, the remaining Kiriath left.

Just like that.

It felt like almost overnight, for how fast it all went down, from the first discussion of it to the last fireship disappearing into the lava at An-Monal. Almost overnight, it was her entire people, the ones who were supposed to stay by her side through the years and centuries ahead, who completely evaporated out of her life. They weren’t even dead - no matter what some of the Helmsmen might say - so she couldn’t grieve them. They were just… gone.

They were gone, and she wasn’t. They were somewhere else, without her. She was left here, all alone with humans who were going to die on her, one by one, again and again, forever.

Yet even _that_ , she survived.

She would never argue that she survived it _well_ , because ‘drugged up to her eyeballs’ could in no way be construed as ‘well’, but she survived it. She survived the Lizards. She survived the following wars. She survived losing her father. She survived being abandoned by her father’s people. She survived it all!

Surely _now_ she had nothing left to fear!? Whatever happened now, it couldn’t even begin to compare with what had come before!?

“Yeah, right.”

She couldn’t tell if she wanted more to laugh or cry right now. She’d had nothing left to fear… except for the return of both the humans’ and the Kiriath’s oldest enemies, back from a time she had never known - and more importantly, never been _told_ about.

She’d had nothing left to fear, except for the return of a people so powerful it had taken the combined efforts of the humans, the Kiriath _and_ the Immortal Watch to defeat them.

And now she was supposed to deal with them on her own? On her very single lonesome? She stopped in her tracks in the middle of her sitting-room, took her face in her hands, and repeated, “Yeah, right.”

And then she sighed. Good thing she wasn’t planning on fighting them, heh? “Sorry, dad,” she whispered through her fingers. “Sorry, Grashgal.” She hadn’t always approved of the way they chose to do things, and she had on occasion gone against their wishes or even direct orders. But this?

This was betrayal. Betrayal of the Kiriath Mission she had been entrusted with. Betrayal of the war efforts her people had deployed all those millennia ago. Betrayal of the memory of those who had lost their lives in that conflict, even if she’d never even known _about_ them, let alone who they had been.

And even deeper than that…

As hard and long as she searched her mind and heart, she couldn’t find any _guilt_ there, and that was the ultimate betrayal, wasn’t it? Not only was she going against what she knew would have been her father’s and Grashgal’s will, but despite what she was saying, she _wasn’t_ sorry about it.

They had left her all alone, and for the very first time in her life, she was taking her very own decision, going against what they would have wanted, not out of childish petulance but because she truly thought it was the best thing to do, and without them having a chance to intervene and stop her before it was too late, or even to compensate afterwards for whatever disaster she might bring about… and she felt no remorse whatsoever about it.

There was certainly quite a bit of trepidation running through her as she wondered whether her assurance was a sign of maturity born of experience, or on the contrary a sign of youthful, blind rashness, but that didn’t change the certainty itself - that conviction that she had chosen the right path, even if it wasn’t the one her father and her mentor would have taken.

She took a deep breath, let her hands fall to her sides.

Smiled ruefully as a thought hit her. “Akal was a great warrior under your guidance, but Jhiral is the one you left me with, and he was always supposed to be one of the diplomatic ones, wasn’t he?” _So I guess in a way I’m only extending that to the dwenda as well, huh?_

Maybe, then, Flaradnam the Wise and Grashgal the Wanderer wouldn’t disagree with her position so much after all? Maybe—

Two clear knocks shook her out of her meditation. She was already opening her mouth to yell at whoever had chosen to disobey her orders to be left alone, when her brain caught up with her and pointed out that her visitor had knocked on the balcony door, not the corridor one.

The balcony door.

She blinked, her mind dragging to a sudden, stupid halt. The _balcony_ door? What in the ever-loving fucking name of the Prophet…?

She knew only two people who would be both bold and idiotic enough to attempt something like that. One was probably somewhere else in this building right now, and if he’d decided to risk her wrath, he would have simply walked through her apartment’s door. The other… All right, the other would have plenty of reasons to do something so phenomenally stupid, but from what she’d seen this afternoon, he was far too concerned with the possible repercussions to take such a risk so soon.

So then who…?

The thought did briefly touch her mind as she strode across the room that this could be an assassin, but this would be the world’s most polite assassin then, and it would feel almost rude to deny them a chance, really… Still, she did have Bandgleam in her hand as she unlocked the door and pulled it open.

At first, she thought she saw nothing.

And then she noticed that she was seeing _nothing_ \- as in, utter darkness where there shouldn’t be any. The sky was overcast, but enough bandlight was filtering through the clouds that she should have been able to see everything on the small terrace. But there seemed to be—

Oh.

And now she was seeing it.

Or rather, she was seeing _them_ , standing right there in front of her: two human-like shapes, as tall as she was, and utterly, completely black.

She knew right away who they were. She had no idea how she knew; she just did. Maybe her brain remembered the strange, black leather-like mail Pelmarag had been wearing under his human glamour. Maybe it added in the sheer impossibility of a material that would absorb light as completely as this one did and concluded that it had to be magic at work somehow. Maybe her eyes distinguished the contours of the shapes better than she thought, and recognised the alien silhouettes.

Or maybe, just maybe, she _wanted_ it to be them, wanted it so badly that she convinced herself it couldn’t be anyone else, even as she refused to accept that this was what she wanted at all. After all, that wouldn’t make any less sense than her opening the door even wider and motioning for them to enter, when every rational path should have led to her telling them to get lost and slamming the door in their faces before the three of them had any chance to capsize the negotiations before they had even truly started.

But once again, as she closed the door behind them, she could find no regret, no doubt, within herself. Maybe she’d finally snapped and gone insane, or maybe the use of krinzanz had finally altered her brain chemistry for good, but either way, she felt nothing but the serenity of someone who knew they’d taken the most right decision in a fraught situation.

And if she was wrong… _Well, maybe you shouldn’t have left me behind all alone, then?_

She waited patiently as the two dwenda took their helmets off. Her practised eyes failed to find any weapon on either of them; Milacar had mentioned long-swords magically strapped to the back, but she couldn’t see any on her visitors. _Then again, if they don’t want you to see something, they can probably hide it from you._ She’d only seen Pelmarag’s true appearance when he’d chosen to let her see it, after all, and there wasn’t even any guarantee that this was his absolutely true appearance either.

She’d been right on their identity at least, as far as she could trust her eyes anyway: these were the two dwenda she had seen while standing on another balcony this afternoon. She watched them shake their hair loose and crack their necks in eerily similar moves - and then the female dwenda was looking at her, and Archeth felt herself falling into that dark, empty gaze…

She held her breath, remained rooted to her spot, as the female dwenda glided closer to her and extended a hand. She had removed her glove; her white fingers almost gleamed when she brought them up, level with Archeth’s face, and left them hanging there, poised barely an inch away from Archeth’s skin. There seemed to be a question in the tilt of her head.

… Archeth nodded, just barely.

The white fingertips were cold against her cheek but she didn’t move away. She watched as the dark eyes closed, all the better for the dwenda to concentrate on whatever it was her fingers were searching for, travelling up the side of Archeth’s face, until they came to rest on her forehead. The contact was not unpleasant; there was a slight buzz spilling from the cold fingertips into her skin, but it didn’t feel like an aggression or anything dangerous, merely like a superficial exploration. Somehow, Archeth had no doubt whatsoever that if the dwenda meant it, that gentle buzz could turn into something far sharper and more intrusive, something that would reach much deeper into her being - and that she would be unable to do anything to stop it.

It should, in all reasonability, at the very least have concerned her, if not scared her outright. But it didn’t. Even the possibility that she was being put under some other kind of glamour couldn’t compel her to pull away. Maybe it was already too late?

Oh well. Not even that truly troubled her.

She shivered when a few words slipped, soft and fluid, from the dwenda’s mouth, evidently not addressed to her. The other dwenda answered, barely more than a single murmured syllable, but it was enough to bring a distinct look of disappointment on the face of the female one - and Archeth found herself, obscurely, unaccountably, resenting the male one for that…

And then suddenly the cold touch was gone, and the female dwenda was taking a step back. The male one joined her, briefly bowed to Archeth, and spoke again, but in Naomic this time. He had as good a grasp on the Northern language as Pelmarag had on the Southern Tethanne, complete with the same kind of slightly archaic turns of phrase and sometimes odd accentuation.

“My name is Seethlaw" — Archeth’s heart thudded in her chest as she recognised it from Milacar’s information — "and this is my sister, Risgillen.” She’d been right about the family resemblance. “We apologise for the unorthodox means we have resorted to in order to meet with you.”

Archeth’s head suddenly swam with questions. She picked the first one she could hold onto. “Does Ringil know you’re here?” Had he sent them? That would be his style.

Seethlaw shook his head. “No.”

“You haven’t told him at all?”

“I tried. He said he didn’t want to know, and that he trusted us not to do anything that might jeopardise the negotiations.”

Archeth nodded. That was more or less how she herself had handled Egar’s wish to go investigate on his own. Still, there were so many things unsaid, just hinted at, in those few words… She couldn’t help asking. “If you’d told him and he’d refused, would you have done it anyway?”

Seethlaw seemed mildly shocked. “No. Of course not.” Risgillen had frowned, but she didn’t contradict him.

All this reminded Archeth of how Pelmarag had repeatedly deferred to Ringil’s authority at the war table. A human, being apparently willingly given authority over at least three dwenda? How did that work? At the same time, that control was not absolute. Pelmarag had prepared food that would act as a message to Archeth, and to her only, and Ringil had clearly not known anything about it - but neither had he seemed to disapprove of it, now that she thought about it. Also, she’d never asked the dwenda exactly what his little trick had been about; she’d have to remember to check on that next time they met.

In the meantime, she had these two to deal with. First things first, “Nobody saw you coming here, right?”

This time, they both looked surprised. “No, of course not,” Seethlaw repeated in a voice that was somewhere between puzzled and offended.

Archeth shrugged. “Sorry, had to make sure.” She then indicated the room around them with a sweeping move of her hand. “I cannot guarantee that this place is safe from spying ears.”

Seethlaw tilted his head at this, and once again, the resemblance with his sister was striking. He seemed curious now. “Why did you let us in, then?”

Archeth stared at him. What could she say that could even begin to explain what she’d been feeling when they’d arrived…? In the end, she just sighed and decided to go with a simplified version of the truth. “My life was turned upside-down today. I couldn’t see the point of continuing to play by the old rules. It would just be a waste of time, really.” And then, before either of the dwenda could comment, she turned her attention to Risgillen and asked, “Why did you want to see me?”

“You are the only one,” came the almost gentle answer, in a Naomic even more archaic and distorted than her brother’s.

A shiver ran down Archeth’s back at her words. The only one? The only Kiriath left? And so if they eliminated her, they would be rid of their Black Folk enemies for good? Was this visit an assassination attempt after all? Or at the very least an intimidation one?

Archeth swallowed. “Yes, I am. Last of the Kiriath.” And not even a full-blooded one either.

Risgillen frowned. “No, not that. Your mother: she was human, yes?”

“Er, yes?” Archeth was confused. What did it matter? Wasn’t it her Kiriath heritage which would concern a dwenda?

“And you are the only one?”

The only one…? _Oh._ “The only half-Kiriath?” Risgillen nodded. “Then yes.” But again, what did it matter!?

“Why?”

“Why… what?” The longer this conversation went on, the more baffled Archeth grew.

“Why is there no other?” When Archeth just stared at her, completely dumbfounded, Risgillen huffed in frustration and turned to her brother. She spoke a few words in their tongue, and looked expectantly again at Archeth while Seethlaw translated.

“The Black Folk lived alongside humans for millennia. How is it possible that there was only one such as you born in all that time?”

“Oh.” That. She knew the answers to that question, as muddy as they were, but what interested her most was, “Why do you care?” Nobody had ever asked her that, never even seemed to realise that it was any kind of oddity. Not even people like Shanta or Ringil, smart people who were also her personal friends, had ever bothered to look beyond what was given to them as a fact - Archeth was the first and only half-Kiriath - and to wonder _why._

And now here were those creatures from another time and another place, her father’s people’s ancestral enemies, and that was the first thing they mentioned? Well, it was her turn to want to know why.

She saw a veil of intense interest briefly disturb the cool expression on Risgillen’s face before she answered, “You’re unique.” There was definitely a note of fascination in her voice, which made Archeth more than a little uncomfortable.

“I’m not some kind of exhibit animal, you know.” Her tone was more defencive than she would have liked it.

Risgillen looked stumped, but Seethlaw frowned. When his sister turned to him, he spoke a few words which only seemed to confuse her even more profoundly. He sighed and talked to Archeth instead.

“Please accept our apologies. It was not our intention to make you feel uncomfortable.”

This intensified Archeth’s interest. The differences in behaviour between the siblings were only made more noticeable by how much they otherwise resembled each other, and seemed to understand each other with very few words.

She took a better look at Seethlaw. On the surface, he seemed to be just another dwenda, but… “You’re the one behind this whole situation, right? The one who spent years making some kind of deal with the League regarding Ennishmin?”

If he was thrown by the sudden change in topic, he didn’t let it show beyond another frown. “Not the whole League. Only the Trelayne Chancellery, along with some other local parties.”

Archeth brushed the objection aside. “Trelayne is the League’s leader.” She was far more curious as to, “Why let Ringil take over after you put so much effort into it?”

He looked blankly at her for a moment, then answered quietly, “Because he says he can obtain the same results at a much lesser price.”

“And you trust him?” She herself would indeed trust Ringil in Seethlaw’s place, but she’d known him for over a decade.

“Yes.”

She had no choice but to repeat, “Why?”

He smiled then, something soft and proud. “Because I can see who and what he is.”

Archeth barely repressed a snort. She did manage to stomp down on her cynicism long enough to stop the cruder version of her reply from escaping her, but she couldn’t help remarking, “I’ve always heard that, on the contrary, love is blind.”

Seethlaw scowled surprisingly harshly at that. “I wouldn’t entrust the future of my people to anyone just because I took a personal shine to them.” His voice was cold and hard but Archeth couldn’t bring herself to be afraid of what the consequences of truly offending him might be. She was far more interested in the way he had so casually mentioned “his” people.

She had watched her father and her mentors be imperial advisers for decades, and she was one herself now. She had long learnt to navigate the ambiguities of how people of various standings talked about the rest of their countrymen. “The people” didn’t imply the same thing as “our people”, and “my people” meant drastically different things when said by the emperor or a rank-and-file soldier.

This one here was definitely an imperial “my people”.

She let her gaze drift back and forth from one irritated face to a coldly attentive one. _Who are you guys exactly?_ Her curiosity was piqued now; she had to admit to it.

She put on a contrite expression as she turned to Seethlaw again. “Please accept my apologies in turn. I meant no offence, not to you and certainly not to Ringil.”

She couldn’t help but notice that it was the mention of Ringil which seemed to abruptly calm the dwenda down. Ringil… _We have that in common, then? He’s your lover and my friend. That’s how we both ended up in this mess. You seem willing enough, so let’s try to make this work, for his sake if not ours._

She faced Risgillen once more and put on the most amiable smile she could muster. “I still don’t understand why you care about it at all, but I can answer the question of why I’m the only half-human Kiriath ever to be born, if you still wish to know.” She didn’t truly relish the prospect of exposing such an intimate matter, of making herself so vulnerable by revealing such intrinsically personal details, but there was _something_ in the greedy light of interest which crossed Risgillen’s face again which compelled Archeth, which called back to some kind of fundamental instinct within her—

Oh.

Of course! How could she have failed to identify it earlier? She had seen it a million times in her life, hadn’t she? It was everywhere among her father’s people, but also around quite a few humans, such as Mahmal Shanta for example. She could even remember a time, so very long ago, when it appeared on Kiriath faces looking down at her from so far up - and she already resented it back then, too. She was older now, though, and supposedly wiser. What the little child had instinctively disliked, the adult could understand, even if it still rankled as much as ever. After all, what kind of half-Kiriath would she be, if she tried to curb _scientific curiosity?_

And so, she explained.

Coolly, almost mechanically, she detailed how it had been a matter of policy at first, for a couple of millennia: the Kiriath had still been hoping they would find a way home, so it only made sense to avoid mixing too intimately with the local human populations. In particular, any hybrid would have to be left behind, which they all agreed would be unnecessary cruelty. And then once the habit was taken, well, it became an unspoken and unchallenged tradition: Kiriath and humans worked and lived together, but didn’t mingle in such ways. It helped, too, that human lives were so short: it left relatively little time for Kiriath to truly fall for humans, and it quickly taught them the pain, inevitable and systematic, which always followed from befriending them.

Once in a while, of course, the odd couple still happened, and tied the knot, and lived a few precious decades together at best. But even when those unions involved a man and a woman, no children were ever born of them.

“Never?” Risgillen sounded sincerely surprised.

Archeth shook her head. “No, never.”

When the Kiriath half of the couple was the woman, the reason was purely biological. Kiriath women only ovulated in reaction to intercourse with a Kiriath man. It was the semen itself, and more specifically some hormones it contained, which triggered the mechanism and allowed subsequent insemination. Human sperm literally didn't have what it took to do the trick.

“Could not the reaction be…” Risgillen looked for her word, and eventually shook her head in frustration. “Could not the engineers make it be?”

Archeth smiled, a little bitterly. Yes, they could have, but they always refused, because the policy-turned-tradition had calcified enough that only a couple in very high standing in either Kiriath or human society could have had enough influence to have it overturned specifically for them - and that had simply never been the case.

And the other way around? Well, that one was even simpler, and far more dramatic. “Human women cannot endure a Kiriath pregnancy. They always end up dying of extreme fever before the end of the second trimester.”

“But your mother did.”

“Barely.”

Archeth still remembered how sometimes, as a very young child, she had caught bribes of fierce arguments between her father and Grashgal. At the time, she hadn’t understood why Grashgal was so angry, nor why her mother would take her away and gently tell her not to be afraid of him or resent him for yelling at her beloved dad. When she had finally learnt enough to put those fights into their proper context, her blood had turned cold at the realisation of the danger her father had put her mother through.

“He only did it because my mother was so desolate. She’d always wanted children of her own, and even though she had sacrificed that dream for the sake of marrying my father, it never left her. And eventually, my father gave in.” And because he was kir-Flaradnam Indamaninarmal, he had enough power to make his will happen, for the better and for the worse.

It would be decades before anyone fully informed Archeth of how close her mother had come to dying despite the Kiriath throwing all their medical engineering into keeping her alive and stable. They had even cut the pregnancy as short as possible, surgically removing Archeth as soon as they were certain she could safely finish maturing in the artificial womb-like environment the Helmsmen had specifically created for her. That was when Archeth had finally understood why the doctors and Helmsmen had insisted on prodding her constantly throughout her childhood - and how _fucking lucky_ she had been that all their worries had been for nought in the end.

“After that near-disaster, you can bet they never tried again.” Her voice was flat, betraying the flux of contradictory emotions which always flooded her when she reflected on those matters. She was both proof that humans and Kiriath _could_ mingle, and that they _shouldn’t_ , and even after so many decades, she still didn’t know how to reconcile these two facts.

At some point during the discussion, they had migrated to the low chairs gathered around the fireplace, and they were now sitting there, Archeth and Risgillen close together and almost facing each other, and Seethlaw to the side and back of his sister, intervening only when she failed to find a way to express her thoughts and needed him to translate them for her. Interestingly enough, Archeth noted, Risgillen never needed help _understanding_ what Archeth was saying, as long as Archeth avoided using words too colloquial or on the contrary too technical. Risgillen knew the Naomic language well enough, no matter that she struggled to speak it.

“And this,” Archeth concluded with a self-deprecatory shrug, an attempt at deflecting both in her own eyes and in her guests’ eyes just how exposed she felt by now, “is the story of why I am the only half-Kiriath ever to be born.” She put on a smile which felt more like a grimace despite her best efforts. “I’m sure that was fascinating.”

Risgillen missed the sarcasm entirely. She looked almost painfully earnest when she nodded. “It was, very much so. Thank you for explaining."

Archeth waved a hand to try to hide the growing mix of reluctant pleasure and somewhat alarmed confusion that was filling her. She didn’t _want_ to feel so comfortable and at ease around these two! It wasn’t _supposed_ to be that way! They were her people’s enemies, not… not… not whatever her subconscious apparently wanted them to be against her better knowledge. “Let’s just say you’ll owe me a story of your own next time.”

… _Wait, what?_ She groaned internally, even as she fought to keep her face bland and smooth. Next time? When the fuck had she unconsciously decided that there would _be_ a next time!?

The two dwenda, however, didn’t seem to have noticed her slip. They exchanged a glance, and looked rather somber as Seethlaw replied, “You will indeed need to be told about the circumstances of our own birth, sooner or later. We will, however, let Ringil and Pelmarag decide on when that should best be done.”

Archeth stared at him - rather stupidly too, in her annoyed opinion. She had not expected her joke to be taken seriously, and even less so to lead to what seemed to be an allusion to matters of serious historical concern. “Er, all right…” She could feel herself floundering, and she grasped onto the opportunity Seethlaw had accidentally given her to bring the discussion onto what would hopefully be a safer, less confusing topic.

“This reminds me: this was originally your project, so why aren’t you the one working with Ringil on the new discussions with the Chancellery now?”

Seethlaw didn’t answer right away. He had cocked his head again, and was looking at her in a speculative way which made her think he must be weighing his options. And indeed, he confirmed it when he finally spoke, in a soft, almost detached voice. “There are several reasons. Some, I would rather not discuss just yet” — she didn’t miss the ‘just yet’, the reciprocal admission that he too, and by implication his sister as well, might be hoping, maybe even just subconsciously, for more meetings with her later on — “but one at least should be obvious enough: Gil and Pel are working at _undoing_ the alliances and contracts I carved over those three years. It would be highly inappropriate for me to participate in such an endeavour.”

“Ah, yes.” That made sense. Though, “Why bother at all? With the kind of power you people wield, you could just walk back on any treatise, and it’s not like the humans could stop you or make you pay for it.” As she had long been taught, making sure that your party had any leverage on the other was the very first precaution to take before entering any negotiation. From what she could see, the dwenda held all the cards here; in fact, she didn’t even know, could not fathom, what Seethlaw could possibly have needed the humans’ cooperation for in the first place. _If you guys didn’t need human help to unleash that hell on Khangset, then what could stop you from doing the same in Ennishmin?_

Seethlaw seemed unhappy at her suggestion. “When I make promises, I keep them.”

Archeth blinked. “… You mean you won’t walk back on your alliance with whatever cabal you’ve built up here just because… it wouldn’t be honourable or something?” That _had_ to be a joke, right!?

“Yes.”

She didn’t _want_ to believe him.

It wasn't that she'd never met anyone who held themselves to their word; quite the contrary, in fact. In every tribe, in every culture, there was always something that was considered sacred, something that was supposed to tie anyone who swore on it even unto death if necessary. Of course, whether individuals followed those rules was another matter, and it was part of her job to determine just how much anyone she talked to could be depended on to hold onto their supposed principles.

The reverse existed as well, though it was infinitely rarer: people who demanded more from themselves than anyone else around them would, people who chose to honour their word even when nobody understood why they should bother in the first place. There were always chinks in their integrity, of course, matters they disregarded as truly deserving, or topics where they recoiled and hid behind ordinary human or Kiriath cowardice to avoid whatever unpleasantness they couldn't bring themselves to face.

Grashgal and both her parents had belonged to that latter group. From there, she'd looked for people like them to surround herself with as friends. Ringil and Egar were among them. Egar was a proud Majak, and would never lower himself to betraying his origins; Archeth knew that when he gave his word as a Majak, he could be counted on to deliver or die trying. Ringil had had to build his own morality out of bits and pieces grabbed here and there, but there were things Archeth knew he would never abide.

Yet, she also knew that both of them, just like Grashgal, Flaradnam, Nantara, and literally everyone else - including herself, Archeth Indamaninarmal - would also freely and unabashedly deceive others whenever it served their interests and didn't go straight against their principles. When all was said and done, to everyone everywhere, manipulation and treachery were the rules of the game. She would know: she’d been playing it for the best part of two centuries.

And yet…

Maybe Seethlaw was a better liar than any she had encountered before. Maybe he had set some kind of gullibility glamour on her when she wasn’t looking. Or maybe, impossibly, unbelievably, he was telling the truth. Whatever the cause, as Archeth listened to his quiet, firm assertion, and stared into his empty eyes glowing yellow and orange in the light of the fire, she simply couldn’t help believing him.

Still, she pressed on, because she had to, because it was her duty to the Empire to insist, to make damn sure. "Those people you dealt with, they don't deserve that kind of integrity. You know that, right?" A small, sad smile bent the corner of his lips. She went on. "The Chancellery is nothing but a nest of vipers. And if our information is right and you've been in contact with the slavers as well, then..." She vaguely waved a hand. "Surely you must be aware of what kind of people they are?"

He nodded, slowly. "Ringil argued all those points as well."

The conclusion could have gone unsaid, but Archeth voiced it all the same. "And he clearly failed to convince you, since there he is, working to undo your contracts anyway." She frowned, grasping onto the new angle this statement afforded her. "That's putting him into quite a bit of danger, you know?" _Why do that, when you could just walk away, disappear safely back into the Grey Places?_ The cabal wouldn't be able to reach him there, and even if they chased him all the way to Ennishmin, it seemed to Archeth that the dwenda had more than enough magical power to simply wave away a handful of humans as one would a mosquito.

Archeth felt her stomach drop when a clear look of disapproval settled on _both_ dwenda's faces. She found that suddenly, unduly, she wanted to excuse her probing as nothing more than a diplomatic necessity, that it wasn't a mark of disagreement, that—

That she didn't want _them_ to think badly of _her_ , and how fucked up was that!?

There was absolutely an icy undercurrent of reproach in Risgillen's voice when she spoke up, softly but surely. "He told you: he keeps his promises. All of us, we do. Thousands of years our people lived amongst humans, yet deception we never learnt."

Archeth tilted her head. "So you never lie? Not even for the little things?"

Risgillen sounded frustrated now. "What necessity would there be in this?"

Archeth fell silent then. She just sat there, staring at her guests, taking in their alien appearance, contemplating the even more alien mindset they pretended to hold to. She was... quite stumped, honestly. Diplomacy, the art of knowing when to lie and when to tell the truth, the skill to distinguish between the various levels of lizardshit she was being fed: this was her element, her job, the one mission she’d been trained for her entire life.

And here came the Aldrain, dismissing all of it with barely a wave of the hand, arguing that it was worthless, pointless, and apparently expecting her to believe them just because they said so.

Everything in her education and experience rebelled against it, as would be expected. It was all a lie, they were manipulating her, how stupid did they think she was, and so forth and so on. And no, it didn't matter than her instincts were telling her otherwise, because she couldn't trust her instincts, not in the face of magic.

She was at a standstill.

Despite everything, she couldn’t help believing them, or at least _wanting_ to believe them - she couldn't tell the difference at this point - but in turn this meant she couldn’t reconcile them with anything in her mental framework. They didn’t fit into her worldview. Any human or Kiriath child would have laughed in the face of absolute integrity, and then used it to their advantage, and yet here these two were, sitting there looking at her in open disapproval and disappointment, as though _she_ were the one who was in the wrong for defending one of the most basic aspects of reality.

None of this made any sense.

… And with that thought, finally, her brain found a foothold to hang onto so she could start to gather her wits about her again. If it didn't make sense, then it should be easy enough to disprove. Testing assertions was one of the bases of the scientific method, as her Kiriath mentors had taught her.

Silently, she stood up and walked to her desk. She pulled a sheet of parchment, grabbed a quill and dipped it in ink. She wrote a single sentence, and dried it; she didn’t add a signature. She rolled the paper tight into itself, and reached for the stick of wax. Twice, she melted its tip over the flame of the lamp on the corner of the desk and applied it firmly onto the edge of the paper. She didn't use any of her stamps, neither personal nor professional.

When she walked back to the fireplace, the dwenda had risen from their seats to wait for her. She handed the sealed missive to Risgillen - dismissing for now the question of why she should choose the sister when the brother would have been the far more logical option - and asked, “Would you give this to Ringil?”

 _”And bring me back his answer,”_ she didn’t say, because even just thinking of the sheer foolishness of it threatened to tear her determination apart, so she certainly wasn’t going to voice out loud that invitation and deep-seated desire for the dwenda to come back, against all reason and caution.

Risgillen inclined her head with a grace which sent flutters throughout Archeth’s guts. “We will.”

Archeth tried to hide her fluster under a too sharp, too pointed question. “Don’t you want to know what’s in it?”

Risgillen cocked her head, frowning slightly and looking for all the world like Archeth had just said something nonsensical she couldn’t parse. Finally, she said, “Ringil trusts you. Your intelligence. Your devotion to peace. We cannot do any less.”

Archeth couldn’t even swallow this time. She could only watch wordlessly as her letter _somehow_ disappeared up the sleeve of Risgillen’s skin-tight armour, before both dwenda gathered their hair up and slipped their helmets back on. They didn’t say anything, didn’t look back at her, just walked to the balcony door, opened it, and stepped out.

And Archeth blinked when, with them, also went an additional layer of reality she hadn’t noticed before. The sounds of the building outside the room suddenly seemed almost too loud and far too close. When had they set this glamour of secrecy upon the three of them? She couldn’t tell; she only knew that it was gone now.

 _Fucking magic…_ Fucking magic. Fucking dwenda, as incomprehensible as they were fascinating. Her legs were shaking under the weight of the too many events and discoveries of the day as she stumbled into bed, not even bothering to take her clothes off beyond her boots and knives.

 _And fuck you, Gil, for dragging me into this._ But that last mental growl, thrown out with the petulance of a resentful child, had no real bite to it - and she knew why, even as she absolutely refused to consider it.

She hadn’t felt so grounded, and so excited for the future, in… far too long.

And if Risgillen’s face was the last thing her brain conjured up before she fell asleep so fast it felt almost more like losing consciousness, well, it didn’t mean anything, did it?

***


	26. Ringil

How long they remain that way, lying silently on the bed, Ringil couldn’t say. His head is on Seethlaw’s shoulder again; his fingers are curled around Seethlaw’s neck, his thumb brushing softly against the cool skin there. Seethlaw’s hand is still on Ringil’s back, pressing slightly, sometimes running little circles. _”I am time here; I am all the time you need,”_ Seethlaw once said; it hadn’t been entirely true then, but it’s true enough now: they are all the time they both need.

Other than their own breaths, there’s only silence between them, but it’s a silence Ringil doesn’t mind for once. It’s not the heavy silence of lies and dissimulation and deception; it’s the silence of winter, quiet with snow yet full of promise, when seeds and animals sleep deep in the ground, waiting only for the right time, for the first rays of the Spring sun to push through to the surface and fulfil their potential.

It’s Ringil’s stomach which prompts them to move in the end, when it growls loudly. Seethlaw’s chest shakes with silent laughter in response, but there’s only concern in his voice when he asks, “Would you rather I bring you a meal here, or do you feel well enough to go out?”

Ringil grunts, regretfully lets go of Seethlaw, and pushes himself into a sitting position. His head barely swims; it seems safe enough to tell the truth. “Still feeling a little woozy, but being cooped up in this room is going to drive me crazy soon.” He knows himself: as striking and wide as the view might be from here, he will grow paranoid and unduly aggressive if he forces himself to remain caged in one place.

Seethlaw sits up in his turn and settles cross-legged next to him, all strength and elegance as always. He reaches for Ringil’s nape and briefly, softly squeezes there in that strangely proprietary manner he used to do back in the Grey Places before everything went wrong. Ringil feels a shiver unsettle his heartbeat and his breathing at the contact - but it’s no longer because he dislikes it…

“Take your time,” Seethlaw says. “There’s no hurry.”

Ringil only hums in response. He pulls his arms high over his head and carefully stretches from side to side to wake his muscles up and work out any potential kink in his back. He enjoys the pleasant feeling of his conscious mind actively reconnecting with every part of his body. At the same time, though, his brain automatically starts lining up the next steps for him to take, and he frowns when a potential problem swims to the surface of his thoughts. “What about the others?”

“The others?” He can hear the confusion in Seethlaw’s voice.

“Is it going to be all right if… if we run into someone out there?” Ringil has no idea whether Seethlaw is even aware of the tensions running through the household, let alone what his opinion on the matter might be.

Seethlaw doesn’t just shrug the question away. He takes a moment before answering quietly, “That should be my problem, not yours.”

“But is is.” Ringil won’t go for this kind of horseshit. He turns to his side, wraps a hand around Seethlaw’s upper arm, and stares into the blank eyes looking back at him. “We’re in this mess together, Seethlaw. You dragged me in, I pulled you in further, now we’re both deep in it.”

Once again, he can hear Seethlaw’s breath growing faster and shallower, but the dwenda doesn’t look away, and his free hand is steady enough when it rises to meet Ringil’s face, and his fingers brush down from forehead to temple and along a stubbled cheek, settling on the chin, right below the lower lip… Ringil lets go of his arm and waits, doesn’t move. There’s no reason to press Seethlaw at the moment; let him take his time to sort through his thoughts and emotions.

Eventually, the dwenda nods. “All right.” He brings his hand back in his lap, takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. His gaze is skittish now, glancing at Ringil before looking away again. His voice is too calm. “I cannot promise you anything. They cannot see exactly what I see, none of them, but, well, they know what it means that I should…” He hesitates, scowls and waves his hands helplessly, seemingly at a loss as to how to finish his sentence.

“That you should have taken me in instead of killing me outright?” Ringil offers.

“… Yes, that.” Seethlaw swallows. “They know I wouldn’t act that way around just anyone, and they’ll respect you on that basis alone, but—”

Ringil waits a moment, and then urges him on once more, patiently. “But?”

Seethlaw shivers, takes another deep breath. “But…” He’s still avoiding looking at Ringil when he finally reluctantly explains, “That doesn’t mean they will _trust_ you.”

Oh. _That!?_ Ringil can’t help it; he lets out a chuckle. Seethlaw whips his gaze around and stares at him incredulously. Ringil shakes his head and stifles the laughter still bubbling up his throat. He extends an arm and brushes Seethlaw’s cheekbone with a thumb while explaining around a smile, “I’d kind of noticed already. Why do you think I even asked you that question?”

Seethlaw frowns, then blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah. It’s really not the trusting part that bothers me.” He spreads his fingers, cups Seethlaw’s cheek, revels in the way the dwenda leans into the touch. “I just don’t want _you_ to get into troubles because of me.”

Seethlaw sighs, turns his head to plant a soft kiss in Ringil’s palm, and pulls away. “Getting into troubles is of no consequence, as long as we find a way to get _out_ of them.” There’s a weariness in his voice which tells Ringil that Seethlaw and his companions have had more than a few opportunities over the millennia to practice ‘getting out of troubles’. It reminds him of Ashgrin's words last night, _“None of us meant for any of this to happen, yet it still did. How we deal with the consequences is the matter at hand now.”_

“Okay then,” he says in his most conciliatory voice. Twisting around, he throws his legs over the edge of the mattress and carefully stands up. The world is steady enough under his feet. His boots are waiting for him at the foot of the bed. He steps into them and starts pulling them up.

At the same time, absent-mindedly, he glances outside the window and is reminded of a previous question he’d wondered. “Say, what’s up with the sea?”

Seethlaw walks to him, with his own boots in hand. “What do you mean?”

“The sea,” he repeats. He vaguely points to the faraway waters. “I swear it… moved.” He’s aware that’s not helpful, so he huffs and adds, “Yesterday, it was much closer to the cliffs, and now it’s… all the way over there?”

“Oh, right.” Seethlaw has the tone of someone who remembers a long-forgotten detail. “You wouldn’t know, of course.”

“I wouldn’t know what?” _Lots of things I don’t know here!_

“About tides.”

Tides? Ringil frowns. He’s heard that term before… “What’s that?”

“Hmm…” Ringil shoots a glance at Seethlaw. The dwenda is already almost done fastening his boots over the legs of his armour. “At a very basic level, it’s one of the most visible signs of the effects of the Moon on the Earth.”

This time, Ringil stops what he’s doing, to better gape at Seethlaw. “… Come again?” What does the fucking _Moon_ have to do with anything!?

Seethlaw sighs, throws him a small smile as he turns around, and heads for the door. “I’ll explain over breakfast.”

Ringil finishes to strap his boot on, and hurries to follow him. He notices how the dwenda blithely walks through the door and does _not_ put his hand on the jamb to keep it open, as Ashgrin did earlier. His heart beats a little faster, even as his feet slow down, while he raises an arm and reaches for the door.

His fingers disappear into it.

It’s as Ashgrin said, then, isn’t it? Ringil is not being kept prisoner inside this room. And why would he be? The dwenda had no reason to lie to him… With a shake of his head, Ringil steps through the door - and slams to a halt.

Where there was a long, blank wall facing him the last time he left this room, there’s now… not nothing, he quickly realises, but another one of those immense, seamless, floor-to-ground windows, exactly like the ones inside the bedrooms.

Mesmerised, he walks up to it and takes in the view on the other side of it. This one faces the inside of the cliff, so there should be rock there. Instead he’s staring at an immense open-air patio. Or… maybe not so open-air: it was raining outside, but it’s not raining in here. So even though he can clearly see the dark clouds passing by high overhead, there must be a roof of some kind anyway, which lets the light in, but not the elements.

The place is so gigantic, Ringil’s mind staggers while attempting to capture it. The vast, seemingly open view would be nothing out of the ordinary if they were topside, but they are not, as he is reminded by the presence, far away to the sides and in the distance in front of him, of rock walls half-hidden in shadows. This _is_ a cave, of some sort, even if not a cave like any he’s ever seen before.

Or rather… He blinks, as he realises just how much, and how incongruously, the place reminds him of An-Monal. They look nothing alike, and yet they both reek of the same sense of _too much_ \- too vast, too complex, and ultimately too _impossible_ for a mere human mind to grasp.

An-Monal was - _is, Gil, still is; just because the Kiriath are gone doesn’t mean the place doesn’t exist anymore_ \- an endless labyrinth of rooms after rooms above rooms under rooms. The few times Ringil had walked it alone, the geometry of the place had quickly stopped making any sense, and he’d had to rely on Manathan’s guidance to reach whichever destination he’d been aiming for.

Things don’t look quite as bad here, if only because the utter openness of the place makes it at least _seem_ like it should be possible to keep a hand on the geography of it. There are no walls or rooms here; instead, there is a multitude of platforms and terraces, for all the world looking like they are floating into thin air, and connected by graceful bridges of light, diminutive versions of the one he saw and crossed in Ennishmin.

At the bottom, several levels below their feet, instead of the rivers of lava of An-Monal, there’s, impossibly, a garden. Even from that distance, Ringil can clearly distinguish the neat arrangement of crop-growing patches here, and the wild bounty of flowers and bushes blooming all around meandering paths there, the whole of it dotted with all kinds of trees, and partitioned by the many branches of a river carefully woven and canalised so as to provide proper irrigation everywhere.

It’s an impossible garden, hidden deep within the bowels of a sea-side cliff, and yet it bursts with life, just like the caves at the heart of the volcano in An-Monal always bustled with human and Kiriath life where none should have been able to endure the harsh conditions, if not for the technology sustaining it all.

Here, it’s magic, not technology, but _same difference, really._ There, the floors and walls gleamed with the brilliance of metallic alloys unknown to men; here, under a deceptive appearance of being nothing more than stone the colour of sand, the terraces shimmer with the same subtle ambient luminosity which brings light to the bedrooms. There, the air was always full of the faint whirring of tireless machinery at work; here, Ringil knows, at the very least the bridges will be humming the soft melody of their strands of light twining around each other.

Same difference, indeed: there are even artificial trees here as well, just as there were in An-Monal. There, they were made - as everything else - of metal, and yet they lived like trees, blooming in spring, bearing fruit in summer, losing their leaves in autumn, and sleeping in winter. So are there, here, trees and bushes made of light on almost every terrace, and Ringil remembers Seethlaw’s description of Enheed-idrishinir. _"You've seen the bridge. Imagine streets and towers made the same way... Trees, and built structures like trees, to echo and worship their form, reaching up to catch the breeze and sing."_

There’s an aching irony here, in the ways the Aldrain and the Kiriath resemble each other so much more than either people ever realised…

Seethlaw is patiently waiting next to him when Ringil finally manages to pull himself away from the contemplation of the mind-boggling view in front of them. There’s a soft half-smile on his face as he asks, “You approve?”

Ringil frowns. The first time Seethlaw asked that question, back in Ennishmin, it struck him as odd, but he’d been too overwhelmed by everything happening to argue it. This time, however… “It’s not my place to approve or not.”

He says it as gently yet firmly as he can. He knows that Seethlaw’s need for his approval is mostly subconscious, born of long-gone interactions whose remaining chains he never threw off, and as much as he doesn’t want to press the dwenda into new ways too quickly, he also refuses to play along with rules he didn’t set up and doesn’t feel comfortable following.

Seethlaw blinks, looking confused and flustered. He doesn’t reply, instead turning around and leading Ringil down to the middle of the corridor, where a faint arch in the glass window betrays the presence of a door. There’s a small platform on the other side of it, with two bridges leading to separate terraces, and a softly curving flight of stairs going down to the garden far below.

Ringil steps through the door behind Seethlaw and immediately confirms what he’d suspected: the place is not silent. There’s the faint music of the bridges, but also the song of the river and the call of birds rising from the garden, and, rather unbelievably, the unmistakable sound of the wind through trees. There’s even a soft breeze brushing against his skin, and sending Seethlaw’s long unbound hair fluttering around. If he closed his eyes, Ringil would not know that he’s inside a cliff rather than out on a plain…

_Fucking magic…_ But this time, there’s far more awe than grudge in the thought.

He hesitates when Seethlaw starts walking down one of the bridges. He remembers how unpleasant the experience had been back in Ennishmin, and it had been on a much bigger, more solid-looking bridge, complete with guard-rails. This one is much narrower and, far more importantly, unprotected on either side! If another bout of nausea hits Ringil while he’s on there and he loses his footing, he might very well fall to his death.

Seethlaw notices that Ringil isn’t following him anymore. He turns with a look of concern on his face, and starts to backtrack. “Something wrong?”

Ringil feels slightly ridiculous, like a child unduly afraid of a non-existent danger, but still, he points to the bridge and asks, “Is this safe?” _For me,_ he doesn’t add; it goes without saying.

Seethlaw looks down at the bridge under his feet, and then back at Ringil. He seems perplexed for a moment, before suddenly exclaiming, “Oh!”

And then he’s turning to the side and stepping _right off the bridge_ , and Ringil is yelling, and—

And there’s a serene smile on Seethlaw’s face again as he’s being wrapped in tendrils of light and brought back firmly onto the bridge.

He extends his hand to Ringil, while explaining, “Everything has been secured. You can’t fall off anything: not the bridges, not the terraces, not even out of the windows in the private rooms.” He grins a little wider. “Not even if you tried.”

Ringil snorts softly at the gentle taunt, but steps forward onto the damn bridge and grabs the offered hand. The sensation of the bridge giving under his feet is as unsettling as ever, but Seethlaw’s fingers are a solid anchor and Ringil shamelessly hangs onto them while he takes another step.

He barely has time to notice Seethlaw’s gaze slipping to look at something over his shoulder, before he hears Pelmarag’s voice rising quietly but firmly behind him. “Close your eyes.”

Ringil doesn’t turn around, doesn’t question. He only entwines his fingers with Seethlaw’s even tighter, and does as he’s told. He smiles a little, gratefully, when he feels Seethlaw’s other hand settle on his hip. And then he waits, in the non-silence.

Nothing happens at first. He’s left to letting the sounds and sensations of the place swamp him: the song of the birds and trees and river, the hum of the bridge, the rush of the breeze in his hair and against his skin - and Seethlaw’s presence, the one firm constant by his side.

When the bridge suddenly sways violently under his feet, a wave of panic rushes through him. Reflexively, he’s about to shift his feet into a more stable position, when he notices that Seethlaw hasn’t moved at all, has only squeezed his hip and fingers once… and he realises that, as wildly as the bridge is moving, it’s also firmly keeping his feet anchored where they are. As long as he doesn’t move them himself, they won’t slip and he won’t fall. And if he does fall, well, Seethlaw has shown him how the bridge will catch him and pull him back.

_You’re safe._ None of the dwenda says it, but that’s the message they are all telling him loud and clear nonetheless.

He nods, straightens up from a hunched position he hadn’t even noticed he’d fallen into, and pulls his hand out of Seethlaw’s hold. When he opens his eyes, Seethlaw is looking at him with a mix of pride and fondness which makes something tighten in Ringil's guts. “I’ve got it,” he says to hide his embarrassment, and if his voice comes out a little too rough, well, nobody remarks on it.

With several of them on it at once, the bridge definitely sways quite a bit, and it doesn’t stop giving under each step, but Ringil refuses to be afraid now. He keeps his head high, his hands to his sides, and his rhythm steady, all the way to the terrace. And even though he definitely feels a rush of relief at stepping onto solid ground again, he does his best to hide it, from his companions but even more importantly from himself.

_You’re safe, Gil. You’re safe on those damned bridges, just as you’re safe on those platforms floating in the air._

That’s one notable difference with An-Monal: over there, the Kiriath always treated him, and all humans, as children who shouldn’t be left unsupervised for their own sake. They were probably right, and it certainly made his life easier since he never had to deal with any of that kind of unpleasantness, but… Well, he didn’t mind there, but at the same time, he’s oddly glad the Aldrain are not taking the same approach here, no matter how much more nerve-wracking their methods might be.

The roughly square terrace they are on seems to be some kind of combined cooking and dining place. On one side of it, under a tall singing tree of light, thrones a long, high, curved table surrounded by equally high stools. On the side facing it, sit various cooking stations; Ringil can make out a fire pit and an earthen oven among other, less discernible apparatuses. A third side is occupied by free-standing shelves piled with food items, from baskets of fruits and raw vegetables to blocks of salt and sugar, and cupboards containing probably more of the same. The last side completes the set, with more shelves and cupboards offering this time a collection of cooking and serving dishes, cups, cutlery, and so on.

Ringil stops in the middle of the place, and takes a second look at everything. His initial impression is confirmed: here just as in his room, there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme nor reason as to the origin of the various assembled items. The table and its stools, he would make as Aldrain, because he’s never known humans to be able to construct such delicate items, wrought out of wood in elegant curves just a little too sober to qualify as arabesques, and each so thin they look like they might snap at any moment. It would take magic to make such things endure any kind of common use, and Ringil would bet that this is exactly what is happening here. Most of the rest of the furniture, however, reeks of humanity, and of various cultures as well.

“A problem?” Pelmarag asks as he passes by him with a platter holding several upturned mugs and cups - and once again, not two of them seem to be of the same origin.

“Not exactly, no,” Ringil says while following him to the table. He climbs on the stool next to the one Seethlaw is sitting on, on the outer side of the table, facing inward towards the kitchen side of the terrace. Just like the bridge, the stool gives a little as Ringil moves, and yet there’s no doubt that it will hold just fine if only Ringil won’t panic. Still, he can’t quite help planting his elbows firmly on the table before continuing, “I’m just wondering what the deal is with the collections of human artifacts. My room is stuffed full of books and crafts, and here, well…” He gestures vaguely with one hand towards the entire place around them, before pointing at the platter of mugs on the table.

“Oh, that.” Pelmarag seems… not embarrassed, but— Ringil can’t quite pinpoint the dwenda’s expression as he turns around and heads to the fire pit where Ashgrin is hanging a pot of water.

Next to Ringil, Seethlaw hums thoughtfully. “They didn’t tell you that they gave you Pel’s room, did they?”

“What?” Ringil turns to him, a little too quickly. The stool waves gently under his arse, but Ringil makes a point to himself of ignoring it. “No, they didn’t.”

Seethlaw only shrugs. “Well, it’s not like it matters much. It was just easier for them to keep an eye on you this way.” He flashes a smile. “And if it provided you with books to read to pass the time, well, so much the better, right?”

Ringil snorts in reply, but then he frowns as he goes back to his original topic. “That doesn’t answer my question, though. What _is_ it with the relentless collecting of human stuff?”

Seethlaw pins him under a long, troubled gaze. Ringil waits. Eventually, Seethlaw sighs and shakes his head. “Pel’s gift is strong, and imperious. He cannot live away from humans for too long. We were exiled, but that didn’t stop him. He spent most of the last four millennia roaming the real world under a stealth glamour. He collected and often personally transcribed the stories of tribes my people never had a chance to meet, and your people have long forgotten.”

“Wait.” Ringil blinks. “Those books in my - his - room: he _wrote_ them!?”

Seethlaw nods. “Many of them, yes. Most of these tribes had only rudimentary writing abilities, if any at all, but like every other people under the sun, they had oral histories, and so he would spend years living with them, earning their trust enough that they would share that heritage with them, and let him record it down onto parchment, even if they couldn’t read it themselves, nor understand why he should care so much.”

That was a good question. “Why _did_ he care so much?”

“I told you: his gift is strong.”

Ringil shakes his head. “You guys keep talking about gifts, but I have no idea what you mean by that.”

“Oh.” Seethlaw frowns. “That’s right; you wouldn’t know.” He sighs and shakes his head again. “I apologise. I keep forgetting…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence because Ashgrin and Pelmarag are coming over, but Ringil can do it for him. _You keep forgetting that even though I’m a Hero, I’m not a Changeling. I wasn’t raised among the Aldrain._ Ringil almost wants to resent Seethlaw for this, but _that can’t be easy for you either…_ So he just nods, and waits for another opportunity.

If either of the other two dwenda notices anything amiss, they don’t mention it. They just busy themselves with unloading the platters they brought with them. Soon, there is an array of cold and hot drinks, of fruits, breads, cheeses and cold meats, spread between the four of them. It occurs to Ringil that it’s most likely not a coincidence at all that Pelmarag and Ashgrin should have happened to need to eat at the same time as Seethlaw and Ringil themselves. _Still keeping an eye on us, are you?_ He can’t find it in himself to resent them, though; if anything, he’s grateful that they are not rubbing their concerns into his face.

He grabs one of the upturned mugs and reaches for a tall jug from which emanates the fragrant scent of strong coffee. A careful test confirms that this is also what it tastes like: warm spices, rich coffee, and just a hint of honey to sweeten the deal. “Nice!”

Not so nice is the wave of nausea which hurls through him when the mouthful of coffee settles in his stomach. He barely manages to set the cup back down without dropping or slamming it, and then his hands are splayed out, grabbing at the table as he hunches over it, eyes screwed and a cold sweat covering his body.

“Gil?” Seethlaw has already slipped down from his seat, is standing behind him. One strong hand takes hold of Ringil’s arm to keep him upright; the other wraps firmly around his waist.

Ringil tries to fight the sickness back, to anchor his consciousness into the world around him. He leans into the solid body at his back with a groan, dips his head to lay it on a wide shoulder. “M’okay.” He’s not; he can hear how slurred his voice is, and he can’t hide how he has to take a few short breaths to stop the impending heaving.

The hand on his arm squeezes gently before letting go. Seethlaw moves a little, without losing his grip on Ringil, until he can lay his cheek against Ringil’s temple, and his freed, cool palm on Ringil's feverish forehead. “Take your time.” The dwenda’s voice is barely a whisper in Ringil’s ear, but it’s patient; it’s another thing Ringil can hold onto.

Unfortunately, nothing helps this time. He can feel a soft glow of soothing magic seeping into his skull, attempting to clear the nausea away, but it doesn't work. His stomach won't settle; his head won't stop spinning. Soon, he starts shivering, and his breath speeds up and loses the little regularity it still had.

Seethlaw's voice is sorrowful when he speaks again, in a murmur, while flexing his palm lying across Ringil's forehead. "Shall I?"

Ringil grunts, struggles to answer. “Wait…” He wants the oblivion he's being offered, but first he needs to make sure of one thing. “Don’… sen’ me back.”

“… What?”

“Th’ real world,” Ringil insists through chattering teeth. “Don’ send me back… Not yet.” He doesn’t want to give up already, not so soon, not so easily!

"Oh." There's a brush of lips against his cheekbone, and then a firm whisper in his ear. "We won't. Not yet, I promise."

And then the dwenda unleashes his magic, and Ringil finds himself slipping away into quiet, blessed unconsciousness.

***


	27. Archeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning!** This chapter contains graphic descriptions of **sexual assault**.

_Ishgrim…_

Ishgrim's soft and sinuous body, pressing against Archeth's back, moulding itself to her own curves. Firm, full lips lining wet kisses along the side of Archeth's throat. One slim arm reaching around; one thin hand running circles on Archeth's stomach, and then the long fingers dipping below, oh so briefly, to brush against Archeth's mound, before crawling back up, up… The breath was cool on her nape, and the adventurous palm almost cold as it curled over her breast - she felt her nipple hardening under the chilly touch, her thighs pressing together around the spark of fire it sent sizzling deep in her belly… And there were words in her ear now, fluid, lilting syllables, and she knew there would be deep dark eyes waiting for her when she—

No.

Wrong! Archeth slammed awake.

Her body was tense but with alarm now, and she could feel her mind scrambling as it tried its best to rally. Wrong, something was _wrong_ with her thoughts, with her dreams, whatever, and…

She barely kept the shout in when she realised that at least one part of her 'dream' was very much real: there fucking was _someone in her bed,_ lying behind her, holding her close!

Out of pure reflex, she flung her elbow backwards, hard. She felt it hit home, and she heard a female voice yell. The hand on her breast flew away, and Archeth pushed herself forward, rolling between the covers until she fell off the bed onto her knees. She cursed under her breath when she remembered that she had left her knives on the opposite bedside table - and then she took stock of who was lying on her bed and she blinked.

_What the fuck…?_

The woman who had been groping her was lying on her side, propped up on an elbow. She was holding a hand over her ribs, presumably where Archeth's blow had landed.

She was also entirely naked.

And she was pouting as she glared at Archeth.

"Who…" Archeth's voice was shaking. Her heart was still beating wildly. "Who the _hell_ are you?" She didn't know that woman; she was sure of that much. She had never seen her before. What was she doing in Archeth's room? And, "How did you get in here!?" The fear was turning to anger, and hardening Archeth's tone.

The woman slowly sat up and opened her arms wide, as if offering her nakedness to Archeth. Her smile reminded Archeth of a hungry wolf. "I'm just a friend."

"My friends know better than to invade my rooms while I'm sleeping," Archeth replied, sharply enough to her satisfaction.

The woman had the gall to pout once again. "I just wanted to give you a happy awakening."

"I like to be able to consent to such things first."

The wolfish grin reappeared, and there was a strange gleam in the woman's amber eyes - amber eyes, pale skin, a mass of unruly dark hair which looked like it had never known the touch of a brush: Archeth's trained eyes collected the information even as she spoke. She saw no weapons anywhere, but that didn't mean anything.

With yet another jolt, she finally noticed that the woman spoke perfect Tethanne. She definitely didn't look like a Southerner, and they were far from the Empire. Was she an employee of the Embassy gone rogue? Was she a spy, an assassin, maybe even just a whore, and this was someone's idea of a joke, an insult, a threat?

"You have no idea what I could do to you with or without your consent," the woman was presently saying softly, still with that demented smile of hers. "I bet I could make you scream in ecstasy loud enough for everyone in this building to hear you."

Insane... She was insane. Archeth slowly pushed herself up, and started to back towards the door, without taking her eyes off her uninvited guest.

"Aw, come on! Leaving already?" The woman crossed her arms under her ample chest, pushing her breasts up and close together. Despite herself, despite everything, Archeth's gaze slipped down for a second, taking in the creamy fullness, the dark, erect nipples. She felt her cunt tighten. _Dammit, Archidi! Pack it in, will you!? Focus!_

"You asked me who I was," the woman said airily. "Does the name Kwelgrish ring a bell to you?" She seemed amused as she took in Archeth's obvious shock. "I'll take that as a yes. So now" — the amber eyes flashed, fire embers burning bright just for an instant — "don't you want to know why I'm here?"

Archeth forced herself to swallow through a suddenly dry throat. First Egar and Takavach, then Ringil and Firfirdar, and now this. It seemed Gil had been right on the money when he'd said the demon gods would go to any lengths…

"You want to convince me to drop the negotiations with Ringil." Her voice was wavering again.

The woman - goddess - Kwelgrish - tilted her head. "That's one alternative, yes, though I doubt you would agree to it."

 _Damn right._ "I need to reach an agreement that will guarantee the safety of the Empire."

Kwelgrish uncrossed her arms and clapped her hands, like a child receiving a present. Her breasts bounced, distractedly. "Precisely! And I'm here to offer you just that."

 _Another alliance between the Dark Court and the Kiriath, against the dwenda._ That made sense. First things first, though: "If we're going to be having a political discussion, then put something on, will you?" Archeth herself was still wearing the clothes she had fallen asleep in after she'd dropped into bed following Risgillen and Seethlaw's visit.

Kwelgrish rolled her eyes, but complied. She pulled the thin embroidered coverlet to her, and deftly wrapped it around her torso and hips. Her arms and shoulders were still bare, but Archeth was used to much worse in Yhelteth; she could deal now.

"Thank you," she said reluctantly. And then she blinked when Kwelgrish reached behind herself, grabbed Archeth's knife-belt off the bedside table, and threw it gracefully at her.

"There. I assume you'll feel safer with those." She didn't quite manage to hide a smirk, and Archeth glowered as she tightened the belt around her waist. They both knew that her weapons would do her nothing more than a big fat deal of nothing against a goddess; Kwelgrish didn't need to rub it in, really.

Still, the presence of the four knives on her body - only Falling Angel was missing, still in her boot at the foot of the bed - did help ground her, anchor her. She found it easier to calm her speeding heart down, to start straightening the situation out. She sent her mind roaming down its usual, familiar diplomatic paths, and eventually settled on an open question. "What's your offer?"

Kwelgrish tilted her head again; the way she was looking at her made Archeth feel like some cheap, amusing knick-knack the goddess would have found on a market stall. Archeth hadn't liked the curiosity so clearly visible on Risgillen's face the night before, but this was infinitely worse. _You're not helping your case, here, Kwelgrish…_

"What _couldn't_ we offer you? Apart from, say, bringing back your people, there's very little that's outside our reach. Just name your price, kir-Archeth Indamaninarmal."

 _Wrong approach._ If the goddess was trying to rile her up, then she was doing a very good job indeed. "I am not for sale," Archeth snapped.

"Oh, really?" Kwelgrish stood up, right there on the bed - an oddly cadenced move, like nothing Archeth had ever seen a normal human being do, as though the goddess's body were suddenly barely more than a puppet whose strings she didn't quite know how to manipulate. She stepped forward, and extended a hand towards Archeth when she reached the edge. Was it just a reflex, or was it some compulsion the goddess had set on her? Archeth didn't know; all she knew was that she reached for the dainty hand and held it firm as the goddess stepped, almost stumbled, down.

And then they were face to face, hand in hand, like two dancers only waiting for the orchestra to begin playing. A treacherous fog slipped into Archeth's mind, disrupting her attention, re-directing it to Kwelgrish's full, wet lips, and her round, bare shoulders…

"That's one thing you could ask for." The goddess's voice was low and throaty, silk wrapping itself around Archeth's mind as it would around her naked body. "An immortal companion by your side, whenever you need her, for the rest of eternity."

Archeth's breath caught in her throat as the goddess's face started to change. Her hair took on the colour of wax around traits whose Northerner nature intensified... In the end, there remained only the amber eyes to betray her, to shatter the illusion that it was Ishgrim standing here, looking shyly at Archeth from beneath pale lashes. And the trick worked, too; Archeth felt the familiar heat pool in her belly already.

"Stop that!" she raged through gritted teeth, while throwing the hand in her hold away like some rotten piece of fruit.

"Oh?" Kwelgrish only seemed amused, once again. "I can be anything you want, you know." And now, under Archeth's equally horrified and fascinated eyes, she changed, again and again. Hair long and short, straight or curly, blond, red, dark, even white. Skin all the colours under the sun, milky white and honey and dusky and almost as black as Archeth's own. Body tall and thin, short and stocky, flat or curvy. Round face, oval, heart-shaped. Nose, cheekbones, chin, lips, forehead, eyebrows: all of them melting from one attractive line into another, again and again and again, until Archeth's mind was dizzy with confusion and her guts roiled with a persistent, if unshaped, desire.

Only the eyes remained the same, amber and hungry and full of a promise Archeth both longed for on a deep, fundamental level, and yet knew she must reject in a quickly evaporating, instinctive attempt at protecting herself. Her head was swimming. She whimpered when Kwelgrish laid fingers on her cheek. She should run away; she knew it.

But it was a sob she heard ripping out of her chest when the goddess's skin turned burnt-black, and her hair thick and braided, and it would have been a Kiriath standing here if not for those damn eyes! Archeth hadn't seen another Kiriath for so long... It took every last scrap of willpower she could still summon not to reach out, not to touch what she knew - knew! - to be only an illusion...

Kwelgrish in her Kiriath skin glided closer. "I could be _anything_ , for you," she whispered in High Kir and in that warm, throaty voice. "Anything at all, whenever you want." Another step and her lips moved against Archeth's as she pronounced the next words, lightly, as though they barely mattered. "All you have to do is ask." And then her tongue was inside Archeth's mouth, hot and slick, and her hand was on Archeth's breast again, and it was like Archeth was not wearing anything at all. The warm palm was cupping the fullness of her tit; two clever fingers were rolling her desperately hard nipple between them.

Kwelgrish's hand on Archeth's cheek travelled down, reached between her legs, where Archeth's aching cunt was waiting for it, wet and open and clenching. She wanted it; she wanted it so much!

Kwelgrish broke the kiss, licked Archeth's lips, her chin, her jaw, and then that voice - poisoned, irresistible honey - was murmuring directly in her ear, "Just ask, and I am yours forever."

A companion, forever, not just to fuck, but to hold and cherish... Someone in whose arms to fall asleep at night; someone to hold when waking up, morning after morning... Someone - Archeth's heart twisted in her chest, brought another sob up her throat - someone who would never grow old, would never die, would _never leave her!_ An eternal companion, a steadfast presence Archeth could rely on, forever... She felt her soul shiver with a hope that didn't yet quite dare believe, just as her body throbbed with mounting ecstasy.

Her hand rose and settled on a round shoulder, even though she couldn't remember ordering it to do that. It was just what she wanted. She wanted to pull this woman to her, to wrap her into a tight grip, to drink in her presence and claim her skin, learn her curves. To never let her go.

To take both the immediate pleasure and the eternal comfort she was offering, and _never be alone again!_ It was a chance Archeth would never encounter again, she knew that. A once in an immortal lifetime opportunity...

And her body, losing itself in the knowledgeable touch of a fucking _goddess._ Her eyes were closing on their own. Her hips were tilting back and forth, shamelessly pleading for Kwelgrish's long fingers to impale her deeper, for her thumb to rub against her clit harder. Her breasts, her arse, her thighs, every part of her skin was screaming, begging to be touched, to be caressed or groped. Her breath was all pants now, with a thin whine behind it all.

She was falling, and with each passing second, with each move of her body or of Kwelgrish's hands on it, she forgot a little bit more why she wasn't supposed to just let this happen. Why couldn't she just take this? Why—

"Just ask." A soft, so soft whisper in her ear. A wet, warm tongue tracing the length of the lobe. "Just ask, and this is yours forever." Just ask... Archeth's lips, shaping themselves around the words... "Just ask, and you can have anything your heart desires, anything your soul longs for, for—"

_Ivory-white skin, sculpted tight to the bone._

A great rushing sound in Archeth's head, drowning out whatever Kwelgrish was saying.

 _Deep, pitch-black eyes_ \- and Archeth's own eyes flying open now, her heart turning over, and her mind emptying for just one moment. She didn't know why; she didn't know how. She just knew that for one instant, however short, her head had cleared, the desperate arousal washed away by an even deeper ache.

And in the moment that followed, slipping through the crack offered by that opportunity, a memory rushed in. _Ringil._ Ringil's caution as he unwrapped the Ravensfriend. His grief as he looked upon it. The understanding passing between him and Egar as they explained why Ringil couldn't take the risk of touching the Ravensfriend ever again.

His warning, grim and harsh. _"Rule number one when dealing with the very appropriately named demon gods, Archidi: they are nobody's fucking allies. Forget this even for five minutes, and they_ will _find a way to use it against you."_

A spark of anger came to life deep in her guts.

"Just ask, heh?" she panted. The small fire grew with each word she managed to think and speak. "Just ask and you'll be mine?" She was in control this time, even if barely, when she raised her free hand and settled it on the goddess's shoulder, to mirror the one already gripping the firm, warm flesh on the opposite side. "Don't you mean... Just ask and _I_ will be _yours_ forever!?"

She pushed, hard.

Her body screamed in agonising frustration as the touch of the fingers driving it wild was ripped away from it, and somewhere deep in her chest, a tiny crack made a corner of her soul wail as the reality of her eternal solitude reasserted itself - but she stomped it all down. She couldn't afford to care about this right now. All she must care about was the raging inferno in her guts and head, so she fed it, still, seething down into Kwelgrish's face, who lay sprawled on her back on the bed where she had stumbled under the force of Archeth's shove, and was looking up at Archeth with her own anger etched into her traits, burning in her amber eyes.

"I ask," Archeth explained, her voice as cold as her fury was hot, "and I'm in your debt. Forget negotiations; forget whatever I may or may not want for the Empire. I accept your offer to be my eternal _whore_ " — she spat the word out, and was very satisfied to see the insult hit home, with an ugly grimace on the lush lips — "and you can demand anything you want from me in exchange. What would it have been?" Her voice was rising now. "Killing Ringil, maybe?"

Kwelgrish opened her mouth. Archeth cut her off with a swift move of her hand. "You know what? I don't care! I don't want to know. All I _do_ care to know is that you thought I would sell the Empire, the Kiriath mission, and my friends too, for a good fuck. Well, if _that_ is what you think of me, then I will have no business with you."

She pointed to the door, not caring that it was ridiculous to ask a goddess to leave through a fucking door. "Go."

Kwelgrish stood up, fury pouring from her like heavy waves. "You do not want to make enemies out of us, Archeth half-breed," she hissed, and the insult hurt more than it had any right to do, coming from her still Kiriath-disguised mouth. "You might regret it when the dwenda turn on you and we're your last hope."

 _Yes, maybe, but_ "I'll deal with that if and when it happens. If I have to accept to become _your_ eternal whore to save my people, then I will do that. But for now, I think I'll manage these negotiations much better without your interference."

Kwelgrish made a show of unwrapping the coverlet from around herself, of reminding Archeth what she was throwing away. Archeth's cunt briefly clenched, but mostly, she felt a cool dispassionate calm fill her. She couldn't tell where it came from, but she welcomed it for now.

"Just go," she repeated, in a voice as quiet as it was full of conviction.

Kwelgrish's lips twitched in displeasure one last time, and she disappeared. From one second to the next, she had vanished, and Archeth reeled from the potent mix of relief and alarmed surprise which rushed through her body as the sudden absence registered in her mind.

She blinked, turned on the spot, rubbed her eyes.

Fell to her knees and curled in on herself until her forehead was lying on her trembling hands gathered into fists on the floor.

Whispered to herself, in that dark, private, almost secret confined space, hidden from the world by the fall of her hair on either side of her face, "Well, damn."

***


	28. Ringil

Ringil has no idea how long he's been out when he wakes up. It might as well be ten minutes as ten hours. All he knows is that this time, it has done him very little good. Even before opening his eyes, before moving a muscle, he can tell that the weakness and dizziness are still very much here, coiled in his head and body, waiting for the first good opportunity to overtake him once more.

 _Shit._ So much for not being sent back to the real world. He won't be able to escape it this time…

He starts when cool fingertips settle on his jaw - and then relaxes when he recognises the touch. Seethlaw's thumb draws tight circles on Ringil's scruffy cheek, and Ringil feels that corner of his mouth pulling up in a small smile. It's as though he can sense each rough hair being brushed in turn, which is soothing at the same time as it helps him settle back into his body without yet opening his eyes.

He's lying on his back on something too hard to be a bed. Judging by the presence of what seems to be a wooden wall on his right, he assumes some kind of bench. There's a blanket over his body, and a cushion under his head - and, he realises with a kick to the heart when the dwenda briefly resettles them, Seethlaw's legs under the cushion.

He turns his head, barely, towards Seethlaw, and is rewarded with a second hand touching him, brushing his hair back from his forehead this time. And there's Seethlaw's voice, falling softly over him, "Take your time."

 _Take your time._ Ringil is growing sick of the piece of advice, but he can't reject it either, not when his own body feels like it's trying to pull itself apart. He can only sigh and groan and open his mouth. "Wha'…" His voice is still slurred, no matter how hard he tries to properly enunciate each word. "Wha' the fuck…" Even his thoughts are sluggish; he knows what he wants to ask, but has a hard time picking the right words for it. In the end, he can only settle on a vague, overly general and frustrated question. "What. Is. _Wrong_. With me!?"

It's not Seethlaw who answers him. It's Pelmarag, from somewhere to the left. "Two things. First, this is not your world. It's close enough in structure that you can withstand living in it, but your body can detect the differences on a fundamental level, and disagree with them all the same."

Ringil grunts. "Awesome."

"Yeah, well, humans are not made to leave their world." And there it is again, that apologetic tone in Pelmarag's voice, as though he feels guilty that he can't make everything right with a snap of his fingers. It doesn't make any sense, and Ringil wants to shake him and ask him why he'd react in such a manner in the first place, but he can't find the strength to express that kind of complex thought right now. So he just moves on, for both their sakes.

"An' second?"

"Magic. This place was built on, and is held together, by Aldrain magic. Humans go mad in the presence of so much magic, unless they've been trained into it from childhood."

 _And I wasn't. Great._ Ringil hesitates, but he needs to know, and the sooner the better. He speaks slowly, to keep control of his words. "This will all get better, right?"

There's a pause, a hesitation, almost as tangible as a rock he might have picked up. Seethlaw is still brushing his hair and his jaw, but now Ringil can't help but wonder if the dwenda is trying to comfort him, or to prepare him for the inevitable conclusion that he can't stay after all.

"To be honest, we've never dealt with a case like yours. We thought you'd accommodate if given enough time, but, well, it doesn't look like it."

Ringil swallows back a bitter bile. _Better get used to the idea, Gil. You're going back._ He doesn't know why this makes him so heartsick, but it does; somewhere deep, deeper than he dares to look, something threatens to rip and tear apart at the idea of—

"I…" Risgillen's voice rises, high behind him, sounding hesitant, even reluctant. "I may be able to help… if you so wish."

The first thing Ringil notices is that Seethlaw doesn't react. He can't tell what the siblings may or may not have discussed while he was unconscious, but Seethlaw doesn't attempt to influence Ringil's decision, one way or the other, and that's unusual enough for Ringil to make a note of it, even if he can't tell what it might mean for now.

For the time being, he's content enough to lean his cheek deeper into Seethlaw's hold before he pushes the awkward words out. "I would be… grateful."

He barely hears Risgillen move. He mourns a little when Seethlaw's hands move away entirely, and he shivers when they are replaced by a palm across his forehead and three fingertips on his left temple. He only has time to take a shaky breath - before he forgets about everything but the ice-cold trickle of magic seeping into his body.

It spreads swiftly throughout his being with each heartbeat, turning his head, his chest, his limbs, into blocks of heavy, unresponsive ice. It doesn't quite hurt, but it's not comfortable either, and he tries his best not to resist it - though he doubts it would make any difference if he did anyway. He forces himself to wait patiently, passively, as the cold flow reaches all the way to his toes and fingers and the tip of his ears…

But when it starts to turn into mist, he panics. He's losing himself! He's disintegrating into dust, and that's more than he can take. He fights back, tries to gather himself back together, tries to remember how to breathe, how to move, how to—

"Trust me." He can't even tell if he heard Risgillen's voice in his ears or in his head. All he knows is that it doesn't help. Trust Risgillen, after everything she's done!? After the torture - flashes of pain in his jaw, of teeth pulling at his flesh and bone - after the captivity - thorny vines holding him in place - after…

No.

From somewhere deep within the fog that his consciousness and memories have become, a shard of light coalesces and reminds him: none of this has happened. Not here, not now. This Risgillen has done nothing worse than warn him about inflicting harm upon her brother, and sneer whenever he did something boorish in her eyes. Even when he showed up with Seethlaw's bloodied and unconscious body, she still didn't try to attack him in any way.

 _You haven't hurt her, and she hasn't hurt you._ Ringil isn't quite sure whether he's the one who thought those words, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that they are true: here and now, he's no enemy to Risgillen. She didn't need to pretend to want to help him if she didn't feel like it, and she certainly has no reason to use that opportunity to attempt to damage him right under her brother's nose.

… And of course, now that he's calming down, he remembers that other crucial point, so unbelievable that he keeps forgetting it: the Aldrain don't lie. If Risgillen offered to help, then Ringil's experience states that this is exactly what he should assume she's trying to do.

Even knowing this, though, letting go is terrifying. Accepting to relinquish the last threads of vague solidity he can still locate within his mind, to hand them over to Risgillen's care, would steal his breath and make his heart hammer in his chest with terror if he could still feel his body. But he steels his will, summons an inner voice from who knows where, grinds out, "All right," and forces himself to _do nothing._

Do nothing but watch and feel as the cold fog he's become creeps into every nook and cranny of his mind and body, fills him - his head, his lungs, his brain and heart and every strand of his being - until he's not sure whether he's even solid and real anymore, or whether he's been transformed into some sort of incorporeal ghost…

He can still feel the bench under his back, the cushion under his head, but the sensations seem to come from so far away, he can barely notice them. They are more like distant memories of something he might have experienced once, long ago. Everything else is gone. There's only this colourless, weightless, tasteless fog filling him.

And then, a single spike of light and pain pierces through that cloud, like a knife, like lightning. He knows it's Risgillen, her will and magic, even if he doesn't know how he knows. Before he can mount the will to protest, though, let alone summon the means to do it, the fog gathers again and he forgets all about the pain.

He feels and watches, mesmerised, as the fog, where it has been touched by the light, starts to _crystallise_ into pure, delicate, geometrical shapes, which multiply and expand and build upon each other, wave-like, until they've filled his whole body, pulling his muscles and nerves and consciousness along the softly coalescing lines. Still yet, the structure grows in thickness and intricateness, ever smaller motifs repeating themselves all over the main frame, gathering every drop of mist, until he's once again filled - but this time with an echoing, gently ringing scaffolding seemingly made of glass spun thinner than a hair yet stronger than steel, holding him up from the inside out, firmly and safely anchoring his every thought and feeling and sensation and movement, from the beating of his heart to the flow of his blood, the endless background churning of his brain and buzzing of his nerves…

And he's back.

He finally opens his eyes, confused by the intense clarity in his being, so acute and complete it's almost painful. His body is just _there_ once more, the physical manifestation and extension of his mind, smoothly fulfilling every unthought order with no delay nor complaint, relaying back every information with no confusion, no jumbling of the many stimuli, no crossing and mixing of the flows resulting in that constant nausea and mental fog whose true depths and extents he can only now really grasp.

He's feeling _good._ He's feeling damn good! In fact, he's feeling better than he can remember feeling in years, mind sharp and body tightly yet serenely under control, like a perfectly trained war horse under an experienced rider.

He blinks, pulls himself into a sitting position on the bench - and he was right, it is a bench. Seethlaw's hand is on the back of his shoulder, at once cautiously letting him go and ready to catch him should anything go wrong. He throws the blanket off his legs, slides his booted feet down onto the floor. He pushes down a little, to test his strength and his balance, and finds them both responding just fine. And when he turns his head to look at Risgillen still crouching on the other side of Seethlaw, behind that end of the couch, not a hint of dizziness troubles him, nor does his vision lose its focus for even the shortest of moments.

He looks into Risgillen's remotely beautiful face, and takes in with a pang her carefully neutral expression, so intensely similar to the one her brother wears when he's trying to hide how unsettled he is. "Thank you," he says, easily. The words come simply, naturally, and he's glad to hear that his tone carries every bit of the gratitude and awe he feels.

He wonders if it's only an artifact of his own hope, but he could swear there's a tiny smile on Risgillen's lips when she nods wordlessly, stands up, and turns to go seat herself on a nearby armchair.

They are on another terrace, a lounging area from the looks of it. There's a low table - early Majak, Ringil would say - surrounded by a smattering of armchairs and couches in various styles, as usual. Three trees of light, and two real ones, provide complex plays of shadows as well as background soothing songs. Everyone is here: Seethlaw by Ringil's side, Risgillen two steps away, and Pelmarag and Ashgrin together on another couch across the table. Pelmarag is leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, his eyes intent on Ringil, nervousness nearly visibly brimming out of him. By contrast, Ashgrin is sitting back, arms and legs crossed, and looking as impassive as ever.

Ringil can't help wondering when Risgillen arrived, what they've all discussed while he was out, and what - if any - conclusion they've reached…

"How are you feeling?" Pelmarag's voice is not as tense as he looks.

Ringil stands up, takes a few steps, then turns around, raises his hands, and tells the simple truth. "Amazing." He looks at Risgillen again, who's now pulled her legs onto her chair and gathered herself in a huddle - exactly like her brother would, once more... "Thank you again. Really."

She nods gracefully, and this time, there's no doubt to be had about the small smile on her lips. It's not even one of those sneers she would throw at him back in the marsh. No, she just seems sincerely pleased, and Ringil can't help but smile back. She looks away, and he doesn't insist. _One step at a time_ , and this particular step feels like a bit of a miracle, to be honest.

He settles back down next to Seethlaw, in a posture mirroring Pelmarag's, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. A corner of his mouth pulls up, barely, when Seethlaw lays a hand on the small of his back; whether it's a warning move, an encouraging one, a proprietary one, or all three and more at once, he finds that not only does he not mind it, but he welcomes it now.

He locks gaze with Pelmarag. Seethlaw is leaving it to him; Risgillen and Ashgrin are sitting back. This leaves Pelmarag who for some reason, seems to be the one Ringil is expected to talk to right now.

Ringil keeps his voice quiet. "Has Seethlaw told you about my offer?"

An ugly grin briefly distorts Pel's features. "Obtaining Hannais M'hen through diplomacy? Yes." It couldn't be more obvious that he doesn't believe for one moment in the feasibility of such a venture. Ringil can't blame him; no matter how much this particular dwenda may love humans, thousands of years spent observing them would necessarily have taught him that solving matters in peaceful ways is not their strong point.

So he just smiles softly. "I wouldn't believe myself either." He stares deep into Pelmarag's eyes. "And yet I know I can do it." And there it is, that very same expression he saw on Seethlaw's face earlier. Pelmarag _wants_ to trust him, but he has no reason to, and every reason not to. So Ringil continues, still as softly. "At this point, I have no guarantee to offer you. All I can do is ask you to give me a chance. Give me a chance to do things my way, and if I fail, you can always go back to the original plan."

 _You know, like you did with Tarnval's disastrous idea._ He doesn't say it out loud, but he feels a ripple of tension and unease go through them all as they hear it just fine anyway. Behind Pelmarag's shoulder, Ashgrin's face clouds over at the allusion to his brother's intervention and his eventual consequent demise. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't protest, doesn't even look angry when his gaze briefly catches Ringil's. They all accept what happened as facts, with no need to attempt to pin any pointless blame on anybody anymore.

Pelmarag mulls over Ringil's words for a moment, before nodding - seemingly more to himself than to anyone else. He's frowning, but there's no animosity in his voice when he speaks up again. "What would your plan involve?"

Ringil shakes his head. "I've barely started to think about it. I only know the broad lines."

"Fair. So tell me: do any of those broad lines present a danger to—" The dwenda's voice falters, before he catches himself. "To any of us?"

 _To Seethlaw,_ Ringil can decipher. He remembers what he's been told about Pelmarag's protectiveness over Seethlaw. "Well, I suppose there's always a risk attached in dealing with humans, but Seethlaw survived just fine on his own for three years, so I doubt whoever would be my negotiation partner would be in any significant danger."

This time, it's surprise he feels going through the assembled dwenda. It's clear to hear in Pelmarag's voice when he repeats, "Whoever would be your negotiation partner?"

Ringil nods. "Ideally, since I intend to deal with the Empire, I'd need someone who speaks Tethanne."

He hasn't asked, but he has zero doubt that Seethlaw speaks as much Tethanne as his sister did in Ringil's previous life, in other words, none at all. Pelmarag, on the other hand, must necessarily have some handle on it, if he lived among the Horse Tribes, as the book Ringil read seems to indicate.

He knows he's guessed right, when Pelmarag looks abruptly stricken. "Ah…" He can't deny that Ringil has a point, but, "Very few of us do."

" _You_ do."

Ringil has time to see a bitter grimace settle itself on Pelmarag's lips, before the dwenda covers his face with his hands and takes a deep breath.

"Of course," Ringil continues gently, "it wouldn't _have_ to be you. Just someone I can trust." _And who would trust me_ , he doesn't say, because he's only too aware that he hasn't reached that point with Pelmarag himself yet.

He's not surprised by the weary expression on Pelmarag's face when the dwenda pulls his hands down.

He is, however, extremely surprised by the next question the dwenda asks, in a dull, flat voice. "Seethlaw mentioned a female friend of yours who works as an adviser to the Emperor, and who would help you in that endeavour. Would I be right in assuming that this friend is kir-Archeth Indamaninarmal?"

Ringil can only stare. His brain is stuck between wondering how Pelmarag would even know about that, and lining up the potentially catastrophic consequences of such a revelation at such an early stage. Asking the Aldrain to trust him is one thing; he's a Hero, if not a proper Changeling. But asking them to trust a half-Kiriath? There's no way they would even consider it. It might even be enough to annihilate any little measure of confidence they've put in him so far.

"I'll take your lack of answer as a yes." And once again, as he did back in the marsh, Pelmarag suddenly looks every single one of his many thousands of years. "In which case, I must ask: what makes you think she would want us back in the real world under any circumstances? Undoubtedly, her people must have left her instructions to the exact opposite end."

 _They haven't told her anything at all about you guys._ Ringil can't share that piece of knowledge, though, since that's another thing he's not supposed to know. So instead, he rallies his wits as much as he can and chooses to circumvent it.

"Even if they did, she's only a single half-Kiriath, with barely a handful of Helmsmen left to help her. And I know for a fact that she wasn't trained in Kiriath engineering, so she wouldn't be able to build new defences if she needed them."

"She would not need them if her people left a battery of weapons hidden somewhere to use in case we came back."

Ringil frowns. "True."

"And you wouldn't know about any of this, because why would they tell you?"

"True again."

"So why should we take that risk?"

"What risk?" Ringil smiles, thin and hard, when Pelmarag blinks in surprise. "If she knows about you and your potential return, then your attack on whichever imperial port you trashed will have clued her in to the fact that it's started. And yet, as far as I know, she hasn't taken any measure to counter it so far, has she?"

It's Pelmarag's turn to frown. "There… were some mentions of Black Folk being sighted in Hannais M'hen around the time you were there. It could have been her."

It was, but once again, Ringil can't mention it. "Let's say it was. Did she do anything? Did she even find your base there? Did she deploy any weapon?"

"… No." Pelmarag is reluctant, but he can't deny the truth. "We know that the surrounding imperial military outposts were reinforced and reorganised, but that's about it."

"Precisely. So she didn't find you—"

"She did come there, though."

Ringil falters briefly, but regains his footing quickly enough. "One, that's assuming it was her in the first place. Second, if you ended up in that port while you were aiming for Ennishmin, then it would make sense that she was able to reverse-engineer that mistake somehow."

Risgillen's voice floats quietly from the armchair where she's still curled up. "The beacon."

Pelmarag sighs and rubs his forehead. "Right. Stupid beacon was supposed to be in Ennishmin. Whoever took it from there could have told her that."

Ringil feels his insides go hard and icy - and he guesses he must have tensed, because Seethlaw's hand presses into his back and rubs gentle circles there. "Probably refugees," he spits out from between locked jaws. There's no ‘probably' about it; he knows full well this is what happened. And this time, he can share the information without divulging his source. "When the Empire took Ennishmin over, they forcefully displaced a whole lot of people. I suppose one of them treasured the beacon enough to take it with them."

Will he ever forget the memories of endless lines of human misery being driven out of their homes? Of said homes being set ablaze in the background? But not before having been plundered by the Imperial armies and mercenaries?

There's a soft tickle of magic pulsing from Seethlaw's fingertips now, reaching through Ringil's shirt and into his body, relaxing his bunched back muscles, and quietly anchoring him in the here and now, away from that nightmare he never quite managed to leave behind. He breathes, deeply, and focuses again on Pelmarag, who is looking at him with an odd mix of cold weariness and warm worry in his eyes. That concern briefly overwhelms Ringil, who looks away - and notices that Ashgrin's arms are not crossed anymore.

Ringil couldn't tell when he uncrossed them, but now one of them has disappeared behind Pelmarag, and Ringil suddenly understands that Ashgrin is likely doing to Pelmarag what Seethlaw is doing to Ringil himself. And for the first time, it occurs to him to wonder: he's never seen the two dwenda act particularly close, but he's always seen them together. Nor does Ashgrin seem to resent Pelmarag for coming back alive from Khangset when his own brother didn't - _then again, Gil, you wouldn't care much either if one of your brothers got himself killed in some stupid venture, would you?_ Just because Risgillen spent two years grieving Seethlaw and trying to avenge him, doesn't mean all other dwenda are as close to their family members…

With a mental shake, Ringil puts the matter aside. _Now's not the time. You can come back to it later. For now…_ For now, he needs to convince Pelmarag to at least give him a chance to contact Archeth.

"So." Another deep breath, and he takes the plunge. "There's no sign that Archeth identified the attack down South as the threat of the return of the Aldrain that her people would have told her about. There's no proof that she was ever truly in Ennishmin. Even if she was, she could have ended up there simply by following the trail of the refugees and the beacon they took with them. Nor is there any sign that she knew what to look for, and even if she did, she definitely didn't find it."

He stares Pelmarag square in the face. "Call me overly optimistic if you will, but none of this sounds like she knew what she was dealing with in the first place, or was ready to deal with it at all."

And there it is again, that hope in the dwenda's eyes, even if he won't give into it without a proper fight. "Still, you would have me believe that her people didn't warn her at all?"

"Yes." The answer fuses easily out of Ringil's mouth. "I met her people, lived with them for a while during the war against the Lizards. I knew her father, Flaradnam the Wise" — he sees the name hit home, the way Pelmarag winces, almost imperceptibly — "and also Grashgal the Wanderer, and Naranash, and all the others still alive. They never mentioned you, and quite frankly, the tales of their early millennia on Earth, of how they got here and what they did afterwards, were more than a little murky. I mean, we're talking about a people who lost entire tribes and didn't remember how or why. So yes, I can absolutely believe that they would have forgotten about you, and thus failed to warn Archeth about your possible return. After all, you've read the Indirath M'nal, haven't you?" Ringil doesn't actually know that, but it's a safe enough bet to make. "I have, and while it does mention your people's existence, and the war they once fought against you, it also argues that you were defeated and exiled once and for all. There's no allusion whatsoever to a possible return, to measures that should be taken, to precautions that should be kept in place. It presents the whole thing as a _done deal._ Combine that with how quickly they decided to leave this world, how fast it all went from discussing it to doing it, and there just isn't enough time for either any proper consideration of what you people might do once they were gone, nor any training to put Archeth through to bring her up to date and prepare her."

He's won. He knows it long before Pelmarag admits to it. Pelmarag can deny Ringil's own experience, and refuse to accept his suppositions on what Archeth may or may not have known. But he cannot deny the contents of the Indirath M'nal. So it's gently now that Ringil voices the last possible objection, and dismisses it. "They did leave a few Helmsmen to help her. They probably remember the war itself, and if anyone was given instructions on how to deal with your return, I would bet on them long before Archeth. But... They are just a few Helmsmen, stuck down in Yhelteth. What could they do up here?"

There's a long silence after that - and then a small, bitter smile on Pelmarag's lips, and the full weight of his empty gaze is on Ringil again, and the strain in his voice is almost painful to hear. "All right, Ringil. You want us to give you a chance to contact kir-Archeth Indamaninarmal, and see if you can convince her to work with you? Fine, we'll give you that. I only demand that you don't ask Seethlaw or Risgillen to meet with her until I give my consent to it. Will you accept that?"

Ringil pulls a tight smile. "I will, if you accede to my own demand not to threaten Archeth's life or well-being in any way."

Pelmarag looks almost offended. "That's a given. I will defend myself should she attack me, but other than that, I have no intention whatsoever to sabotage your diplomacy attempts, no matter how unlikely I may consider them to succeed. You have my word."

This time, it's a large grin Ringil lets out as he extends a hand over the low table. "Then we have a deal." Pelmarag takes it, shakes it. He seems almost surprised at his own actions, and Ringil can't help driving his point home with a wink. "See, maybe I'm better at this whole diplomacy thing than you thought?"

Pelmarag snorts, but there's genuine wonder in his voice, and a smile on his face, when he replies, "Yeah, maybe." He lets go of Ringil's hand and waves towards an upper terrace. "Want to make another attempt at eating something?"

***


	29. Egar

Egar was not particularly surprised to be woken up by Archeth pounding on his door.

He was, however, quite shocked by the state she was in. Oh, she was hiding it well enough that any Embassy personnel she might have encountered would not have noticed anything out of the unusual. But Egar knew her rather intimately, and he could tell at a glance that something had happened. What it could be, since she shouldn't have left the building since the evening before, especially not without taking her personal bodyguard with her, he couldn't fathom, but it had quite seriously unsettled her.

He invited her in with just a wave of his hand - and noticed, as she passed by him, that she was still wearing her clothes from the day before. If anything, this alarmed him even more; what could she have done all night long, that she would not even have had time to take the most summary of sponge baths, and put on fresh clothes?

She sank into one of the armchairs by the fireplace and covered her face with her hands. That in itself was an uncommon admission as to the turmoil raging inside her. Egar kept silent as he revived the embers in the hearth, and set a kettle of water to heat. And then he sat down at her feet, legs crossed, and waited.

She pulled her fingers apart, looked at him through them, and sighed. Only when she slowly lowered her hands, did he speak up, quietly. "What happened?"

She _tried_ to keep her voice flat, but there was still a tremor running through it when she answered, "I got my own personal visit from one of the Sky Dwellers."

Alarm instantly ran, thick and swift, through Egar's system, but he stomped on it and focused on remaining the rock Archeth needed him to be at the moment. "I don't suppose you mean your little ghost of the other day?"

She tried to snort, nearly sobbed instead. "Not quite, no!"

"Archidi…" Slowly, calmly, almost coldly. "It's over. You survived. Take a deep breath."

She gave him a trembling wet smile but did as she was told, and sure enough he saw the first strands of her usual strength gather again around her. "Thanks, Eg." Her voice was small but devoid of the screeching edge of impending hysteria which had tainted it so far.

Egar nodded and stood up to prepare the tea set. He kept an eye on Archeth as he worked, and could tell she was steadily pulling herself together. _That's it, Archidi. Take it slow. I'm not going anywhere. We have all the time in the world._ That was almost true, too: they had no appointment planned for the day, beyond an informal arrangement to gather with Rakan, Shanta and Galat at some point during the day to debrief the events of the day before. No formal time had been settled on; Egar assumed it would likely follow lunch.

By the time Egar handed Archeth a cup of strong tea in a saucer, she had regained her poise. She didn't even look like she needed her usual morning dose of krinzanz yet, even though Egar was quite sure she hadn't had any so far today; he knew the signs quite well, after living in her household for months.

He pushed another armchair close to hers, sat down, picked up his own cup of tea. She let him take a careful sip before dropping the news, in a quiet voice, "It was Kwelgrish this time."

Egar groaned. "Great. Takavach, Vividara, and now Kelgris. They are really all getting into this act, aren't they?"

"Looks like it." She sampled her tea in turn, briefly closing her eyes as it warmed her up from the inside.

"Guess Gil was right, then: they are seriously worried about where this could be going."

She scowled. Her voice turned harsh. "If that's so, then they are really not using the right methods to change the course of events."

Egar hesitated before asking cautiously, "What happened, Archidi?"

She swallowed hard, and answered, once again in a voice not quite as flat as she probably hoped, "Kwelgrish offered to be my, ah, eternal companion."

Egar blinked in complete confusion. "Whut?"

"My whore, Eg." There was only irritation now in her voice. "She offered to be anything and anyone I could possibly want."

Thoughts of Ishgrim immediately flooded Egar's mind. The girl was beautiful, and she was a personal gift from the Emperor, specifically as a sex slave. Egar would have resisted about half a second before plundering those bountiful curves, but so far, Archeth hadn't so much as chastely kissed her. Where she found the strength to resist the appeal of a body so clearly made for sex, and so freely offered to her, Egar had no idea. Quite frankly, he wasn't even sure why she bothered at all; they all knew the girl had already been taken by Jhiral at the very least, and probably none too gently either. Whatever Archeth did to her would be heaven compared to that. But no, in true Kiriath fashion, Archeth still stubbornly refused to personally partake in the slavery her people had ruthlessly used to help build the Empire in the first place. _Talk about some twisted logic, right there…_

He didn't voice any of this. Instead, he simply remarked, "She could hardly have chosen a worst target for that kind of tactics." It would work on Egar any day; it could work on Ringil if attempted with enough finesse. But Archeth? Not a chance.

As such, he was quite shocked when she whispered, "I wish I deserved that vote of confidence."

He stared at her. He didn't understand. "But… You rejected her, didn't you?" Hadn't she implied as much when she'd mentioned that the Sky Dwellers weren't using the right techniques to sway her?

She looked small and embarrassed suddenly. She wouldn't meet his eye when she admitted, "Yes, but…" He barely heard the rest of her sentence. "I _almost_ gave in."

Relief and affection flooded him; he wanted to snort, to slap his forehead, to roll his eyes. He did none of this, only let his feelings colour his tone when he explained, " _Nobody_ has an easy time when dealing with them Sky Dwellers, Archidi. And I don't think that's one domain where being half-Kiriath is going to be any help. So trust me, it doesn't matter one bit how close you came to accepting her offer. All that matters is that when all is said and done, you didn't. Don't go beating yourself up for not being any more invulnerable against the fucking _Sky Dwellers_ than the rest of us. Just be proud that you _did_ do better than most of the rest of us would!"

She was looking at him again by the time he stopped talking, and there was a small grateful smile on her lips. Egar pulled a fierce grin for her benefit, nodded vigorously, and took a big gulp of his tea.

She sighed. "I guess you're right—"

"Damn right I am!"

That drew an actual grin out of her. "Fine, you're right." Her expression turned wistful. "I wish I'd taken the time to make her say what she wanted out of me before throwing her out, though."

_Throwing her out…?_ Egar managed to conceal his bafflement - who threw a fucking _goddess_ out?? - and then his admiration - well, if anyone could, it _would_ be Archeth - and kept himself on topic. "You mean in what way she wanted you to sabotage this whole thing?"

"Yeah. That kind of information could definitely have been useful."

"Uh-huh."

She threw him a surprised look. "You don't think so?"

"Oh no, I do! But…" He shook his head. "Archidi, coming out on top _in any way_ when dealing with the Sky Dwellers is a fucking big achievement in itself. Remember what Ringil said? Playing that game is what they _do._ It's what they've been doing for longer than anyone has been living, including our new dwenda friends. So really, beating yourself up because you didn't manage to manipulate Kelgris into showing her hand? What's next, feeling guilty because it gets too cold up in the steppes and too hot down in Demlarashan?"

She snorted. He threw her a rueful smile.

They finished their tea in silence and in a much more relaxed atmosphere.

When they were done, she stood up, stretched and yawned. Egar took that opportunity to voice his earlier observation. "You didn't change your clothes. Did anything off the record happen last night?"

A strange, stricken expression settled on her face. He could have sworn she looked… embarrassed? She hesitated, her gaze skittering away from his, before taking a deep breath and facing him again. "How much do you trust me?"

He didn't bother trying to hide his shock at the question. How much did he trust her? Well, with his life, didn't he? Didn't she know that? But then he frowned, because she _did_ know that; she _had_ to, so if she was asking, then it had to be something truly big she was hiding. And considering the circumstances… Well.

He spoke slowly as he answered. "You know I would trust you blindly in any other circumstance. Even if sometimes I wish you weren't so dependent on the krin, I still trust you to keep your head clear enough where it matters. Far more than I would ever trust myself, for one." He was the one who had completely bungled the Clanmaster job, after all. "So now…" He held her alien gaze, noticed the jitters in her stance. "If you're asking this, it's because you know you're doing something that might go catastrophically wrong, right?"

She nodded, shortly and wordlessly.

"Right. But if you're doing it anyway, then you also hope it might turn out beneficial to you, or even to all the rest of us?"

Another tense nod.

"Well, that's all I need to know, then." Her eyes widened. He made his voice as firm as he could. "You and Ringil, you are the only ones left alive I would trust in that way, but yes, I would. I'm trusting Gil to know what he's doing with the dwenda. I'm trusting you to keep your head on your shoulders in this mess he's thrown us all in, even when all the rest of us are losing it. And yeah" - a decisive nod - "I'm trusting you that whatever dangerous actions you've been taking on the sly, you judge them to be the best alternative you have."

She sighed, a deep, emptying thing. And then she smiled at him, obviously relieved. "Thank you, Eg."

He wasn't quite done. "I also trust that you know you can come to me for help if things go haywire. I might yell at you afterwards, but first I'll help you deal with it. You know that, right?"

… Damn. Now she looked like she was about to cry. _Too far, Dragonbane._ He cleared his throat, bent his gaze down to the empty cup in his hands, and fiddled with it while waiting for the awkward silence to lift.

Her voice was still a little too shaky when she finally spoke again. "Yeah, I know. I really hope it won't come to that. And also, for what it's worth, I really hope I'll be able to put you in the confidence soon enough."

He shrugged. " ‘S okay. You didn't ask me what I was up to when I was tracking Milacar down. Least I can do is return the favour, right?"

"… Right." He risked throwing her a glance. She was fidgeting absent-mindedly with the pommel of one of her knives on her belt. And then she shook her head, focused again, noticed him looking at her. The smile she gave him was a bit too forced and self-deprecating, but it would do. "I guess I should head back to my room and change before anyone else notices. I'll see you at lunch, and then we'll all spend a quiet, relaxing afternoon debriefing yesterday's meeting. What do you say?"

He grinned. "Sounds outright idyllic to me."

"Doesn't it?" She turned around and headed to the door. She stopped before opening it, and looked back at him with a frown on her face. "Eg... You're the only one here apart from me who knows Gil. He's our friend, but in this case, he's also a potential enemy. If there's anything you've noticed that I don't mention and you think I should be paying more attention to, I _expect_ you to bring it up. Understood?"

_Bring it up in front of the others?_ … It made sense, he supposed. She was asking them to trust her to have the Empire's best interests at heart; she probably felt she owed them as much honesty as she could afford in return. If that meant criticising Ringil… Well, he was the one who had put them all in this situation, wasn't he?

"Will do," he said soberly.

She nodded again, and was gone.

** 

He had a few hours to kill until lunch. Before Archeth's visit, he had wondered whether she would want to talk to him, or run some errand for her. Now, he was officially free, and so of course, he was itching to go to work instead - that, or kill something, or fuck someone, or all of these at once.

That gave him an idea...

_Damned half-breed Kiriath will be the death of you_ , he told himself with a wry smile. But then again, _nobody forced you to become her bodyguard or become involved in her politics._ In fact, if anything, he was the one who had imposed onto her and into her life. Even that bodyguard job had been nothing more, at first, on her side, than a flimsy excuse to invite him to stay in her house in Yhelteth indefinitely, from one old friend to another. So really, he did owe it to her, on some level, to make himself as useful as he could.

Still, though, now that the negotiations had officially opened, he needed to be even more careful in his snooping around. The Embassy carriage they had used the day before to go to Milacar's place had not been bearing any identifying mark, so nobody who was not already in the secret of what was going on _should_ be aware that Archeth, let alone her bodyguard, had visited Ringil - but Egar preferred to err on the side of caution anyway.

That was how, on a hunch and a hope, after eating a quick breakfast, he found himself lazily walking down the streets of Tervinala, on the way to the establishment where he had finally located Milacar a couple of days earlier. He didn't try to hide; if anything, he made sure that anyone who might have any interest in where he was going, would be unable to miss him or lose him, even in the busy morning crowd of the diplomatic quarter.

Both the coldly beautiful, middle-aged woman sitting behind the only desk in the small entrance room, and her tall bodyguard standing in a corner, clearly recognised him when he walked in. The bodyguard nodded shortly, while the woman smiled, all business-like. "Master Dragonbane. It is a pleasure to see you again."

Egar took her words as reassurance that Milacar had not complained about being importuned, which meant it should be safe enough to ask after him again. "Same, Madame. I greatly enjoyed the service as well as the company last time." That was not entirely true, but it would do.

The woman pressed her lips together, without losing the smile. "I'm afraid we can only guarantee the service today."

_So much for that. You tried, Dragonbane._ He hid his disappointment behind a grin of his own. "Oh, the service will do. Though I was wondering if I could sample some other offers of yours?" Today, he intended to be _properly_ ‘serviced' all right, which first and foremost meant _women!_

**

About one hour and three orgasms later, he was half-dozing through the thorough massage - a real one, this time - that the two girls, as talented as they were beautiful, who had been assigned to take care of him, were giving him, when a third one slipped silently into the room. She knelt on the large bed next to his head, and whispered into his ear, "Madame wishes to inform you that your companion has arrived and is asking after you. What answer shall I bring back to her?"

Groggy as he was, Egar could only muster a half-smile of triumph at first. _So, it worked after all, huh?_ Then he yawned, deeply, shook his head to clear it, and pushed himself on his elbows. "Tell her I'll be right there, as soon as I find my legs again." Had it been anyone else, he might have suggested they come and share in his fun, but not only would the old faggot have no interest in Egar's girls, there was also no way Egar was going to let Milacar see him in any state of undress again if he could help it!

Instead, once he finished pulling himself together and his clothes back on, he found the girl waiting for him outside the room, and followed her to a small sitting room where Milacar - fully dressed, thank Urann's balls - was dragging on a roll of krinzanz while reading what looked like some business report or other.

"Dragonbane!" The papers in the mobster's hands seemed to vanish into thin air as he jumped to his feet and strode towards Egar, the hand not holding the krin twig extended.

"Master Milacar." Egar made the grasp and followed the man back to the two armchairs sitting on either side of a small, low table laden with a jug filled with fragrant coffee, two cups, and the attending paraphernalia.

Milacar immediately served them both, only stopping long enough to ask Egar how he wanted his drink. Then, cup in one hand and krin in the other, he sat back in his chair, crossed his legs, and looked straight at Egar. He barely bothered pretending. "Rumour has it a mysterious carriage visited my villa down on Replete Cargo Street yesterday afternoon."

_Rumour, my arse._ Egar kept silent, sipping on the rather strong coffee; surely the trader would understand that he couldn't confirm this statement.

Indeed, Milacar nodded, seemingly satisfied. "I want to be optimistic and deduce from your presence here that it can't have gone too wrong?"

Egar was not fooled. Milacar had previously been emphatic enough that he didn't care one bit about the political side of Ringil's shenanigans. This wasn't about the negotiations, not on his side anyway; what he was after was news of Ringil, and possibly Seethlaw as well. It was up to Egar to sell those bits of information at a good enough price.

"We are all working on reaching a satisfying end for all parties involved," he eventually said, "and I have full confidence in both the lady kir-Archeth and my lord Ringil in this matter." And sure enough, there it was, that spark of badly-repressed interest in the old faggot's eyes and stance at the mention of Gil's name. "If peace is what they both want, then barring a disaster or as yet unseen obstacles or interferences, peace is what they will obtain."

Milacar tilted his head. "Is this what you're here for? These ‘as yet unseen obstacles or interferences'?"

_Straight to the point, I see._ "Indeed."

Milacar shook his head. "I already told you: I always kept out of this business."

"You might still know more than we do in some matters, possibly without even being aware of it."

"Oh?" A shrewd look passed in the mobster's eyes. "Such as?"

"Well… We had it confirmed that Ringil has taken up the negotiations with the League cabal. However, he's told us that far from furthering their previous goals, he's in fact trying to _undo_ any alliance that was forged between the cabal and the dwenda."

If the shock on Milacar's face was not genuine, then the man was a far better actor than Egar gave him credit for. "What!? But… Why? Why would he do that? Why would he try to undo everything—" He cut himself short, bit on his lip.

Until yesterday, Egar would have thought that it was more than a little pathetic, the way he stumbled over Seethlaw's name. But now, after experiencing for himself the physical effects of being in the female dwenda's presence, and after unwillingly finding himself developing a far too empathetic understanding of Pelmarag's position… Well, who was he to talk?

So there was no mockery when he finished Milacar's sentence. "Why would he try to undo everything Seethlaw worked to build?" Milacar looked stricken; Egar pretended not to notice. "See, that's exactly what I'm hoping you can help me with."

Milacar pulled a deep draught of the dwindling krinzanz twig. "At the risk of repeating myself: I don't know what it was all about." He didn't sound annoyed so much as utterly confused.

Egar smiled thinly. "I daresay you probably know more than you think. For example: how did you even come to meet Seethlaw, if you weren't in the cabal?"

Milacar smiled sadly. "Believe it or not, but I was just fucking lucky. From what I've gathered, he observed things for a while without showing himself, and then chose me as one of his first contacts, possibly the very first one."

Egar raised an eyebrow. Was he really supposed to believe that?

"I know how it sounds, but think about it," Milacar insisted. "He needed someone who had contacts in many powerful places, and I do. I rub elbows with the nobles in the Glades, and through them with the Chancellery. I am a successful trader, on both sides of the law. I have good acquaintances in the Salt Warren. I belong to the Marsh Brotherhood. If you're looking for an entry point into the circles of power in Trelayne, I'm actually a pretty good option."

Egar mused about it. Explained that way, it did make sense. But then, what was in it for—

Ah. Of course.

In a low, neutral voice, "And he would also have learnt that he himself was the only payment he would need to offer you in exchange." It wasn't shame Egar read in Milacar's gaze before he looked away; it was pure misery. In turn, it was odd how Egar couldn't find in himself so much as an ounce of the disgust he'd have felt just a day earlier. _Fucking dwenda…_ Fucking beautiful dwenda, and their way to mess with people's heads without seemingly even trying. Egar had only seen that female one for a few minutes, not even talked to her, and yet here he was, completely messed up over her. If she were to come to him for help in exchange for her body… _Yeah, you'd do the exact same thing, Dragonbane, or at least you'd be really tempted._

He cleared his throat, moved on. "So you introduced him to all the right people, and then you stayed out of the subsequent talks?"

Milacar nodded, briefly, absently. He was still staring away, with that lost look on his face.

"Do you remember if he expressed any specific requests, in those early discussions?"

Milacar frowned, seemed to focus back on the situation at hand. Egar could almost see him pulling up those memories, at least three years past already, shifting through them, until finally, "I… Maybe, yes?" Egar grunted in encouragement. "He was particularly insistent about meeting with the slavers, and when I finally convinced old Slab - Findrich, I mean - to talk to him, the first thing Slab asked him was what he wanted in exchange, and" — that tripping on the name, again — "and he said, ‘Only what you already sell.'"

Egar blinked. "Only what… You mean the slaves?"

Milacar shrugged. "That's what I assumed, yes. I didn't ask. Didn't want to know, to be honest." He seemed uncomfortable, and Egar remembered that even though Grace-of-Heaven Milacar had built his considerable fortune mostly through dishonest means, everyone agreed that he'd never touched the slaving business. _"You'd think a professional assassin would have no problems with picking up the slave trade, but there you go,"_ the ambassador had said with a shrug.

Egar scratched his jaw. "Slaves, huh? And then Ringil ran into him precisely when he went looking for his cousin who'd been sold."

"Yeah, looks like it all fits together pretty well." Milacar didn't seem to care much, and yet…

"I think you've just answered our question."

"What question?" Milacar looked baffled.

"The question of why Ringil would work at undoing Seethlaw's work." When the man only stared at him in even more confusion, Egar gave him a tight smile. "Using slaves in some way or another? The Ringil I know would never go along with such a plan."

He saw understanding dawning on Milacar's face. "True, that," the mobster said quietly.

"See," Egar said with a grin, "I told you you knew more than you thought."

Milacar tilted his head. "What _I_ don't understand, is why you didn't just ask him about that."

Egar shrugged. "Believe it or not, but so many things happened during the one meeting we've had so far, it simply never came up."

"So… You did meet him?" Milacar's voice had turned just a little tighter.

"If you mean Ringil, then yes. But the dwenda who accompanied him was not Seethlaw." The flow of changing emotions fleeting over Milacar's face, from hope to relief to dejection, was almost painful to witness.

"Ringil… Ringil seemed to be doing well last time I saw him?"

"Yeah, he looked good. Better than I expected, to be honest, especially given the circumstances."

Egar was used to Ringil's many faces, from the brooding, melancholic one he wore on long evenings of quiet conversation, to the harshly grinning battle one, and of course there was the urbane one he put on whenever he was in what was supposed to be polite company, and quite a few others still. But yesterday had presented them with yet another Ringil - an older one, of course, but more importantly, a far steadier one. All of his intensity was still there, but it didn't feel as though it was constantly poised on the edge of some precipice as it used to, just waiting for an excuse to unleash itself in a verbal or physical attack. If anything, he had willingly, deliberately, been the voice of patience and conciliation, as Archeth and Pelmarag tried to find their footing around each other, and _that_ was new. Egar was not surprised that Ringil _could_ do it, but he would never have expected Ringil to _want_ to put himself through such a political ordeal.

"He was... focused," Egar explained. "I've seen him do that before, but it was almost always in battle. He rarely cared enough about anything to apply it to anything else."

Milacar nodded. "Yes, I noticed that as well." A quick, bitter twist of his lips. "You wouldn't believe how many times I tried to make him take things half as seriously, back when he would do the odd job for me." And then that fondness which made Egar so uncomfortable was softening his voice once more. "He always insisted on laughing about everything. Nothing really mattered. Not nearly getting killed; not nearly getting arrested. Nothing."

"Yeah, he was the same with us, most of the time." A whole lot of it had been a facade, Egar knew that, to hide a constant pain whose true depths, Egar suspected, Ringil had never shared with anyone. And it was still there now, too, just softened, not as raw - and if that was due to Seethlaw's influence rather than just the passage of time, then Egar couldn't decide whether he wanted to know or not.

Speaking of the dwenda, though... "Quite frankly," Egar said slowly, "I don't understand why he even bothers. With the League, I mean. He could just drop Seethlaw's plan dead cold, and move on to his own."

"Hmm, no, he couldn't." Milacar's voice was surprisingly assured. Egar raised a questioning eyebrow. "Seethlaw wouldn't let him." This time, Egar stared, and Milacar chuckled and shook his head. "That's just how Seethlaw is. When he says something, he keeps his word. If he made any kind of contracts with the slavers or anybody else, he won't just walk away from them, or allow anybody else to do it in his stead."

"… Are you _serious?_ " Egar didn't bother to hide his disbelief. Who had _ever_ heard of someone keeping their word just for the sake of it!?

Milacar cocked his head. "I'm surprised. I would have expected a Majak, of all people, to understand such matters." Egar scowled. "The rest of us, whether in the League or the Empire, we're all the same bunch of liars, but I'd been told that the Majak take their oaths seriously."

"We do," Egar snapped. Any Majak worth that name would choose to die rather than break their word. That was an essential part of what it _meant_ to be a Majak. But, "Never heard of anyone else doing it," he muttered. He knew well enough that if anything, most people laughed at what they saw as the childish, simplistic ways of a bunch of savages too uncivilised to grasp the superior subtleties of courtly dissimulation and manipulation.

Milacar shrugged. "The dwenda do. Or at least, Seethlaw does, and he says they all do. They keep their word. Oh, and they don't seem fond of lying either. Seethlaw was quite often irritated by what he seemed to consider a pointless and baffling waste of time and effort."

Egar snorted. "So magic tricks and glamours are fine by them, but not lying? How does that work?"

Milacar pulled pensively on the last dregs of his krin twig. "Easily enough, actually. See, all you have to do is _ask_."

"Ask?"

"Yes, ask. Ask if they are using magic. Seethlaw would never _tell_ me whenever he put a glamour on someone, including myself, but if I asked him, then he would admit to it readily. He would never deny its presence, nor refuse to explain the purpose of it if I wanted to know."

Egar blinked. "Really? That simple?"

"With Seethlaw at least, yes."

"Huh." Just ask? That... was not a concept Egar had ever been accustomed to, even back on the steppes, and years in the League or Yhelteth certainly hadn't helped either. But...

He thought back to Pelmarag, to the way the dwenda had openly discussed some matters with Ringil in front of Archeth, and allowed Ringil to reveal some others, even when they were clearly distasteful or even painful to him. There had been no dissimulation there. He had tried to hide his own emotions, yes, but that had been the extant of it. He had hidden under a glamour to welcome them, but when Ringil had called him forward, he had dropped it without hesitation, and from then on, he had never refused to answer any question put to him, or to provide any explanation needed from him.

That didn't mean that he hadn't lied after all, of course, but it was congruent with Milacar's assertions at least. It also certainly didn't mean that he wouldn't lie in the future, but... _That's worth keeping an eye on it. See if you can catch him at it._ Catch him at it - or on the contrary, confirm what Milacar was saying, as fantastical and ludicrous as it might sound...

**


	30. Ringil

Seethlaw and Pelmarag did end up explaining what tides are while Ringil was eating, though Ringil didn't understand all of it. Now, standing ankle-deep in the sea with his back to the waves, he looks up the beach, and marvels at the line of the "high tide", hinted at by the various remnants of sea life left behind when the water receded.

"In a few hours, the shoreline will be up there," Seethlaw confirms, pointing exactly where Ringil is looking. "Though as we said, that also changes according to the time of the year. At the equinox, it goes all the way to the foot of the cliffs."

Boggling. This is just mind-boggling. The Grey Places, Ringil can accept. A house built out of a cliff, he can fathom. But a sea that acts like no sea he's ever seen? … He lets out a chuckle of disbelief when he realises that _this_ should be where his mind sets a limit.

It makes sense in a way, though, he figures. Alien is alien; magic is magic. But the sea is supposed to be mundane, and the band as well, and yet here he is, in a world where there's no band, where there's this weird little Moon instead, and where the sea acts so strangely. That's a lesson he's been taught over and over again throughout his life, isn't it? Pay attention to the small, seemingly insignificant details. He learnt to read his father's mood as a child. He learnt to pay attention to every word used, every move made, during Grace-of-Heaven's transactions with other criminals, when he was a youth running around with the wrong crowd. It was drilled into him at the Academy, and then on the field, to notice anything out of the ordinary in any place which might even remotely potentially harbour enemies.

And of course, in a world where being a degenerate faggot could earn you the cage, he had to learn to read between the lines, both to find potential partners and to avoid potential harassment. He still fondly remembers just how long it took him to notice Noyal Rakan's interest in him, so discreet they both had to be in that dance.

Noyal… _Noy_ … There won't be a Noyal Rakan for him in this life. No Hjel either, if he can avoid it, and in a way, this one is so much worse, because no matter how distasteful it is to contemplate that matter, it does seem like Hjel's destiny was to meet him, guide him, train him - and now there won't be a Ringil in Hjel's life. Will Hjel die of old age wondering just what Dakovash had been talking about? Will he blame himself for somehow failing to live up to the god's expectations? The thought makes Ringil's heart ache…

_At least, Noyal will live, and hopefully he won't lose his brother so soon either._ Gods know he was far too young to be made captain. Maybe now he will have a chance to gain enough experience before that rank is bestowed upon him - and maybe it won't even be because Faileh dies!

Maybe.

So many maybes. So many possibilities. Ringil is wondering whether he would see the ghosts of Noyal and Hjel if he travelled the Grey Places now, when Seethlaw's hand briefly touching his shoulder brings him back to his surroundings.

"Everything all right?" The dwenda sounds worried.

Ringil looks up, flashes a grin he hopes doesn't seem too artificially bright. "Yeah. Just getting lost in my thoughts." He raises a hand, brushes a thumb at the corner of Seethlaw's mouth to coax a smile. It works; the frown between the furrowed brows disappears and the white lips quirk up.

The freedom is heady. Just the two of them on a deserted beach, in a world where nobody cares that they should both be men. Ringil remembers how he never completely adapted to that same acceptance from Hjel's people. Why does it seem easier here? Is it just because Seethlaw and the others are so blatantly not human? Is it yet another case of strangeness being more tolerable when it shows up clothed in openly alien garb?

Whatever the reason, it comes almost naturally here, the urge to lean in and claim the cool lips, slip his tongue between them, taste Seethlaw's mouth once more - and there it is yet again, the otherness under the similarity. It is a kiss like any other, with noses getting in the way, tongues sliding around each other, and teeth that can just as easily tease as hurt if they are not kept in check. Yet, nobody could mistake an Aldrain for a human when kissing them like this. The skin is too cold, the stubble too soft, and no human would ever taste of spices like Seethlaw does.

So similar, yet so different.

So different, yet so similar. A soft groan rises in Seethlaw's throat when Ringil briefly worries his lower lip between his teeth, just to hear him gasp, and feel him shudder under his hands, one on his cheek, the other on his neck. The dwenda doesn't press any closer, though, and so Ringil doesn't push the matter. They still need to talk, first…

In the meantime, however, "I'm going swimming!" Ringil pulled his boots off a while ago already, as soon as they emerged from the passageway onto the beach. Now he's unbuttoning his shirt and breeches, while walking up the beach to a place a little higher than the waterline.

He looks over his shoulder at where Seethlaw is standing a couple of paces behind him, with his arms around himself, in that defencive posture Ringil has come to dread so much. _What's wrong this time!?_ He shoots his most enticing grin. "Water too cold for you?"

The water _is_ cold, admittedly, but Ringil couldn't care less. The sea at Lanatray could turn bitterly cold depending on the winds, and he's long learnt that he can endure it just fine as long as he keeps moving. He would expect that Seethlaw would know as much, if he's spent any time in this house in a cliff overlooking the sea.

Another look at Seethlaw makes Ringil stop in his tracks. The dwenda is staring at him as though Ringil just suddenly sprouted a second head. "… What?"

Seethlaw frowns, in what Ringil recognises as confusion. "You… You're serious?"

"Hmm…" Ringil blinks. "About what?"

A jerk of the white chin towards the waves. "Going swimming."

The grin smears itself back onto Ringil's face. "Hell yes! It's been far too long since I've had time and opportunity for a good soak." And then, belatedly, a concern rises to his mind. "Um, say, there aren't any dangerous things in there?"

There's no hesitation in the way Seethlaw shakes his head. "No. It's perfectly safe. Risgillen made sure of that."

Risgillen…? Ringil pushes the question to the corner of his mind where he's storing all the details he will have to examine later. For now, what matters is, "Then what? You don't like to swim? That would be a shame for someone who lives right by the sea!"

The way Seethlaw just _stares_ at him without answering is, quite frankly, disturbing. Ringil stares back. "What? What's the matter?"

Seethlaw takes a couple of steps to the side, still hugging himself tight. His voice doesn't sound natural at all when he replies, "It doesn't matter. Don't let me keep you back."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Now Ringil is irritated, and he doesn't see any reason to hold it in. _We're supposed to be honest with each other, right?_ "Do you have any idea how annoying it is when you act like that!?"

Seethlaw blinks, and then frowns. His jaw has tightened, and his voice is far too flat and soft when he shoots back, "Like what?"

Ringil hesitates. He can feel a precipice opening under his feet, at some angle he can't see. He remembers only too acutely how such fighting was what initially broke Seethlaw's trust in him, back in Ennishmin.

But there's a difference this time. This time Ringil has no intention of lying, and no desire to hurt Seethlaw for the sake of it. So it's the truth he forces himself to formulate, as plain and simple as he can make it. "Like you can't depend on me to deal with whatever is bothering you, or even just to accept it."

And there it is yet again, that jerk of the dwenda's head to the side, as though Ringil had physically slapped him. The silence that accompanies it is far too familiar as well. Ringil gives it a minute, and then he ambles over, grabs Seethlaw by the shoulders - odd reminiscence of that time when their positions were reversed, _"I see what the akiya saw, Gil!"_ \- and growls his own plea out. " _Talk_ to me, Seethlaw. I can't guess what's going on in your mind!"

And there it is as well, another reaction Ringil has come to know and dread too much. The dark eyes close; the tight breath grows fast and ragged. Ringil's hands start to shake along with the body they are holding.

Ringil teeters on the edge of his anger. A part of him wants to shove Seethlaw away; another part wants to let this go, to tell Seethlaw to calm down, to hold him until he does just that. And yet another part of him… "Seethlaw, fuck! Can you _please_ stop being so afraid of me!?" Ringil hears the hurt, the begging in his own voice, but to his surprise, he finds that he doesn't care. He's decided to be honest with Seethlaw, hasn't he? Well, that's part of it as well… "I told you, didn't I? I don't _want_ to hurt you. Maybe I will, because I'm an idiot and an oaf sometimes, but you can't prevent that from happening simply by hiding from me everything I need to know to understand you!" He digs his fingers into the strong shoulders. "We won't get anywhere that way."

Seethlaw takes a deep breath - or tries to, anyway - but his voice is still strangled when he says, without looking at Ringil, "I _want_ to. I just don't know _how._ "

This… is more than Ringil expected, quite frankly. So he restrains himself, brings his voice back to as quiet a tone as he can manage when he suggests, "What about answering my questions, for starters?"

Seethlaw is still shaking and not breathing right when he re-opens his eyes and looks at Ringil. "All right." There's an edge of defiance in his words. "What do you want to know?"

Ringil lets him go with one hand and gestures towards the water. "Why is it so weird that I would want to go swimming?"

Seethlaw shrugs. "Cormorion hated the sea."

… And just like that, the beach turns to quick-sand under Ringil's feet. He's floundering, struggling to find an anchor somewhere, something he can hold onto to start dealing with those few simple words, and compose an answer…

In the end, all he can do is swallow and croak out a single word. "Who?" He _knows_ who, oh hell he does! But he's not _supposed_ to, and he wasn't expecting Seethlaw to mention him so casually, and… Ugh! _Bitten off more than you can chew, hmm?_ Yes, yes he has, but he's going to manage this somehow, dammit!

Seethlaw opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "Cormorion. He - he was…" He uncrosses his arms, pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, lets out a puff of pure frustration. And then he's throwing his arms up, breaking Ringil's hold on his shoulder in the process, and exclaiming, "You know what? It doesn't matter! You want to go swimming? All right, fine, let's go swimming." He points to Ringil's state of half-undress. "Not like that, though. The water is very cold at this time of the year; you'll only manage to get yourself a bad case of hypothermia. Let me go and get you something more appropriate."

And then he's walking decisively off, up the beach, to a door at the bottom of the cliff, next to the one they came out of half an hour ago.

Ringil blinks.

"Uh, sure," he tells the empty air.

**

What Seethlaw brings back is something very much like the leather-mail armour, except lighter to the touch and covering also the hands and feet where the armour stops at the wrists and ankles.

Ringil looks rather dubiously at the one-piece suit Seethlaw handed him. It was clearly cut for a dwenda. "There's no way I'm going to fit into this."

Seethlaw briefly stops undressing to frown at him. "You don't need to worry on that matter. It's made to stretch or shrink to adapt to the wearer. Just strip and I'll show you how to put it on."

Seethlaw didn't lie - _when does he ever?_ He demonstrates how to open the upper part, helps Ringil step into it and pull it up his body. The material glides like silk up Ringil's legs, and then up his arms. When he closes it over his chest, following Seethlaw's instructions, he feels the suit tightening all around him, as though trying to become one with his skin. It's not unpleasant at all, quite the contrary: he feels surprisingly warm and comfortable, like in the close embrace of some kind of very soft and very elastic blanket.

He's already covered all the way from the neck down, including his hands and feet, but then Seethlaw steps behind him, gathers his hair, twists it into a tight knot on the back of his head, and then pulls up some more of the fabric all the way over to Ringil's forehead. Only his face remains exposed now; even his ears are covered, though this doesn't seem to impeach his hearing in the least.

Carefully, he wades into the surf. He blinks in marvel as he clearly feels the ebb and flow of the water around his feet and ankles, yet only registers its temperature as being barely below his own. "Amazing," he whispers to Seethlaw as the dwenda shows up next to him, fully dressed in the same suit.

"Yes," is the only answer he gets before Seethlaw runs into the incoming waves until he's thigh-deep in the sea, and then dives head first into the foam.

**

The water is cold indeed: the first shock of it on his face robbed Ringil of his breath. But the skin there is the part of the body most used to dealing with such extremes, always exposed to the elements as it is, and soon Ringil has forgotten all about it, as he would forget about sleet or a viciously cold wind when riding for hours.

Instead, he focuses on following Seethlaw - which is when he notices another stunning property of the suits they are wearing: where they are in contact with water, they glow softly in a very light version of the aspect storm's blue fire. Finding Seethlaw underwater is child's game thanks to that trick, and Ringil makes good use of it.

How long they stay out there, swimming against the waves with all their strength, diving to the sea floor, relaxing on their back with their eyes closed, Ringil couldn't tell. All he knows is that everything will taste of salt forever, that he inhales water more often than he can count and has to cough his lungs out each time, and that he's going to be fabulously _sore_ all over come the next day, but by the gods! He can't remember having so much fun in far too long!

He had forgotten just how much he loves the sea; it's been so many years since he had a chance to just soak in it like this, with no immediate worries to distract him, and no witnesses to mock his self-indulgence. For all the months he spent on boats during that ill-fated expedition to the Hironish Isles, he never actually had an opportunity to just enjoy the sea - it wouldn't have done for Lord Ringil the Dark Mage to be seen taking such simple, childish pleasure, would it?

Now, though, he can, and so he does.

It's no small encouragement either that Seethlaw is so clearly loving it as well. His reticence back on the beach is so thoroughly gone, Ringil almost wonders if he imagined it all. Now, the dwenda's wandering all over the place in swift, flowing moves Ringil can't always hope to match and satisfies himself with admiring from a distance. Several times, Seethlaw comes and grabs him by the hand to drag him down and show him a crack between rocks where thin, bright-red algae are rippling in the quiet current, or a bank of rainbow-coloured fish that swirl and swoosh around them…

And then they are floating quite far from the beach, close to the face of a cliff outcrop, and Seethlaw is saying, "Take a deep breath, and let me guide you." Ringil nods, breathes in and out a couple of times, fills his lungs, and squeezes Seethlaw's hand in his. The dwenda's hold turns into an iron grip as he pulls Ringil straight down, and then _under_ and _inside_. Ringil forces himself not to panic: the tunnel is large enough for the both of them, and Seethlaw clearly knows where he's going. So Ringil just keeps paddling with his feet, letting the dwenda guide him into the deepening darkness, further in, and then up—

And out.

Ringil gulps the icy air and wipes the water from his eyes. He blinks, and gapes, stupidly, helplessly. He twists around, to take a better view of the small cave. There are thin cracks in the roof, letting in beams of pale light which reflect all over the walls, as though myriads of gems were embedded in the rock. Ringil knows it's just a particular type of stone, but the effect is mesmerising all the same.

Gently, Seethlaw pulls him to one side of the small cave, where a long, flat ledge plunges as a slight angle into the sea. Seethlaw finally lets him go, so they can both settle together on the rock, lying on their backs just low enough for the water to cover their ears and lap at their necks. Inside the cave, the waves are far more subdued, almost unnoticeable, and the result is a hypnotic quietness. All Ringil can hear is the living rumble of the sea in his ears; all he can see is the dark flickering of the wet rock all around them. All he can feel is the hard stone under his back and legs, the regular massaging come-and-go of the water - and Seethlaw's fingers, brushing against his own…

Ringil closes his eyes, breathes deeply. It smells of minerals and crisp air. The waves roll gently over his chest as it expands and contracts. His mind is as clear and focused and active as his body is relaxed. He can look down at the upcoming weeks without fear, face the list of obstacles he will have to negotiate without feeling overwhelmed. He can do this, especially—

Seethlaw doesn't react when Ringil tangles their fingers tighter together.

Ringil pulls himself onto his side with a surprised grunt - and blinks in disbelief. It's utterly bewildering, and yet there's no doubt to be had: Seethlaw is asleep. Ringil smiles to himself in bafflement. There's a sweet ache twisting in his chest as he takes his fill of the beautiful pale face, with nobody around to question or judge him for doing so. The line of the dark brows is smooth for once, devoid of the tension and worry Ringil has grown far too used to reading in them. The long eyelashes cast delicate shadows on the white skin. The chiseled cheekbones and jaws are sculpted as tight to the bone as ever, and yet there's a softness to them which, impossibly, makes the immortal dwenda look even younger than usual. And his lips…

The long, mobile lips are slightly parted - not enough to let more than a glimpse of teeth show, but more than enough to wake the fire in Ringil's belly again. His gloved hand shivers as it reaches for Seethlaw's neck, lands tentative fingertips there, slowly drags them up to the angle of the sharp jaw…

Seethlaw wakes up then. He doesn't move, but his mouth quirks up in a soft, lazy smile, while his half-open eyes go looking for Ringil's gaze. He welcomes Ringil with a hum when Ringil leans down. The kiss is slow at first, tongues tasting salt in each other's mouth. Ringil's prick hardens pointlessly, trapped as it is in the skin-tight suit, but the pressure is more pleasant than frustrating, so Ringil doesn't care.

He changes his mind, though, when Seethlaw wraps his arms around Ringil's back and pulls him closer. He tries to resist, but the begging moan the dwenda releases into his mouth sends the growing fire running through his limbs and robs him of any strength. He lets Seethlaw pull him on top of him, lets the dwenda wrap his legs around his hips, his arms around his back.

Soon, both of them are grunting as they helplessly grind their trapped erections against each other. It won't be enough, Ringil can tell, but he'll be damned if he'll stop anyway! It feels too good; he can't have enough of Seethlaw's tongue against his, Seethlaw's body under his, Seethlaw's hands rubbing all over his back, Seethlaw's legs pulling him ever closer…

But then Seethlaw arches hopelessly under him, and groans his name in frustration, and Ringil grasps onto the last strands of sanity still lying around in his mind. He breaks the kiss and lays his forehead against Seethlaw's. He almost loses his resolve all over again when a whine escapes the white lips between two harsh pants.

"Dammit, Seethlaw," he whispers just loud enough to be heard over the rush of the water. "Here and now, really!?"

Seethlaw is too far gone to give him a proper answer. He can only moan and attempt to catch his lips again.

Ringil chuckles breathlessly. "All right then." _Think, Gil, dammit!_ There's nothing they can actually do with the suits on, and the idea of opening them and exposing his body to the freezing water is almost enough to kill his erection on the spot. There's nowhere else in the cave they could use, as far as he can see. So first, they need to get out of here, and then… Sex on the beach is equally out of the question, both because he's learnt not to mix sand with that kind of fun, and because the windows up on the cliff have a direct view on the place, which leaves...

"Bedroom, Seethlaw," he explains as he pushes on his arms to escape the hold the dwenda has on him. "We need to get back to the house and into a bedroom."

Seethlaw groans, loudly - but then he's unwinding himself from around Ringil, and not so gently pushing him away. Ringil doesn't protest, just slips down the ledge and waits as Seethlaw sits up and takes a few deep breaths before joining him in the water and grabbing his hand.

After that, things go almost dizzyingly fast. Seethlaw is strong and relentless as he pulls Ringil back into the tunnel and then all the way to shore. He only releases his grip when they reach the beach, to let the two of them gather their dropped clothes into a couple of haphazard bundles, before nearly running to the door at the bottom of the cliff which will take them straight back to the highest floor of the house, just as magically as it took them down earlier.

A couple of round staircases and a few minutes later, they are - finally - stumbling through the door to Seethlaw's room, and Seethlaw is turning and grabbing Ringil's head between his hands, and resuming the kiss with a pleading moan. Ringil smiles, lets himself be tongue-fucked, and focuses instead of remembering how to open those damn suits. A hidden seam, on the right side of the neck, curving side-ways to the shoulder… Aha! The low, rumbling groan he gets from Seethlaw when he finally manages to open the dwenda's suit, and runs his still-covered and somewhat wet hands up and down the white chest sends a spike of nearly painful pleasure stabbing through his belly.

It takes much longer than should be necessary to get the two of them naked, because Seethlaw is not only not helping, but he's actively hindering Ringil's efforts, what with his refusal to break their kiss, or to stop plastering himself against Ringil's body and grinding into him, but Ringil is not complaining. He knows he should be slowing them both down even more, have a proper talk with Seethlaw, but there's no way this is going to happen now - _oh hell no!_ \- not with the way Seethlaw climbs him as soon as they've both finally stepped out of their suits, and wraps his legs once more around Ringil's hips while holding himself up with his arms around Ringil's neck, and _grinds_ into Ringil, hard and swift and desperate.

Their stiff pricks are trapped between their bellies, which makes the short walk to the bed an exercise in exquisite agony, but then, _finally,_ Ringil is dropping the two of them onto the covers, and Seethlaw is letting go of his full-body death grip on Ringil, and relaxing into the mattress, and sighing in expectant relief against Ringil's lips, and _gods,_ Ringil's heart feels so big, it shouldn't be able to fit inside his ribcage anymore.

When the dwenda opens his legs, Ringil ignores him. They haven't discussed anything, but he figures there are other ways to make his point. He simply crawls higher over the white, sprawled body, moves his knees up until he can settle himself astride Seethlaw's hips instead. He can feel Seethlaw tense under him, and see an anxious frown twists his brow, but he just grins hungrily down at him, pretends not to see the question so clearly visible in the deep dark eyes, and proceeds to renew their kiss instead.

Between them, their pricks are once again rubbing against each other in a truly wonderful way, and Ringil barely resists the burning desire to just grab the two of them in one hand, and bring them both off that way. He has a point to make, though, so instead, he unseals his lips from Seethlaw's, and plunges two fingers into the cool mouth. Seethlaw obediently covers them in a thick, slobbery coat of saliva—

And his eyes go wide, and Ringil hears him gasp, when he reaches behind himself to spread the slick across his own hole. Ringil holds the dwenda's gaze, firm and steady, as he finishes to prepare himself and then goes for Seethlaw's cock between their bodies, gathers the fluid generously dripping from the slit at its top onto his palm and begins to coat the whole shaft with it.

That's when Seethlaw finally tries to stop him. He breaks eye-contact, and raises both hands; they reach down, attempt to displace Ringil's fingers around his prick. Ringil won't have any of it, though: he does relinquish his hold on Seethlaw's cock, but only to wrap his hands around Seethlaw's wrists and push them up, up, all the way above Seethlaw's head. He plants them firmly next to each other on the pillow, drills his gaze once more into the dark, disquieted eyes - and lets go.

This is obviously not a show of strength: Seethlaw is far stronger than Ringil could dream to be. He could have his way - _any_ way - with Ringil if he wanted to. This is not about that; it's about Seethlaw accepting - or refusing, should he choose so - to let Ringil change the unspoken, and more importantly, never-agreed-upon rules he seems to have imposed upon the two of them.

So Ringil waits. He waits and watches as Seethlaw closes his eyes. He waits and watches worriedly as the white arms tremble faintly on each side of Seethlaw's head, as though it were taking some immense effort for him to keep them lying where Ringil put them. He waits and listens as Seethlaw's breath decays into frantic gulps, until he takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, haltingly.

Carefully, Ringil once again wraps a hand around the white prick, and pulls it into position. Seethlaw shivers and lets out a strangled gasp, but he doesn't protest. He doesn't move, beyond his head tilting back when Ringil lowers himself a first inch. He's trembling, and a couple of lilting words in the Aldrain tongue slip on a whisper out of his panting mouth, but he lets Ringil work himself down, bit by bit.

And _oh gods_ , it feels so good! The stretch is almost at this perfect point where pain and pleasure meet and multiply each other. Ringil bites back a moan, and forces himself to keep focusing on Seethlaw. The dwenda is shaking and jerking every time Ringil moves; Ringil can almost see the waves of lust rippling along the length of his torso, and crashing into his throat where they give birth to the most heart-turning little sobs and broken pleas.

When he finally bottoms out, Ringil takes a moment to revel in the fullness, the hardness, the spread… And also the hard body under his arse, and the way the taut skin on the white stomach shudders violently when Ringil lays a hand on it. Seethlaw's eyes are still closed. His arms have stopped shivering. He's still laid out as Ringil positioned him, but his back keeps arching off the bed with every move of Ringil's. He's _here_ with Ringil, his body eagerly drinking in every ounce of pleasure Ringil gives him, his mind accepting the new deal and falling into the ecstasy of it, and it's everything Ringil wanted.

Or maybe not quite. Ringil's voice is rough when he pushes the order out. "Seethlaw… Open your eyes." He knows instantly he was right, when the dwenda's breath catches in his throat, and his brow furrows in a distressed way. _I don't understand. You fucked me just fine on our first night, so why does it upset you so much now?_ Ringil has no idea; he just knows that he cannot remember the dwenda ever fucking him again since then - and that right now, quite clearly, even though he let Ringil have his way, he's more than reluctant to fully acknowledge it.

Even when the empty eyes finally open, it takes them a while to stop staring at the ceiling and to look down at where Ringil is waiting. Ringil's heart turns over when they finally focus on him. He smiles, unsteadily, and feels something stupid slip on a whisper out of his mouth before he can stop it. "Gods, you're beautiful…" And he is, with that perfect body spread and sprawled out just for Ringil, all that white skin waiting for Ringil's touch, those parted lips begging for a million more kisses, harsh or gentle, invading or just pecks…

And those eyes… Gods, those eyes! It's not the first time Ringil feels himself falling into them, and he suspects it won't be the last. "You're so fucking beautiful," he repeats, hoarsely, because he _needs_ to say something but he can't think of anything else, not when his heart is running and skipping like this, and his prick is straining and bobbing like that.

Seethlaw makes a strange little strangled noise, and then his gaze is sliding down along Ringil's chest, and settling on where their bodies are joined. He stares, looking almost confused, as Ringil pulls himself a couple inches up, and then lowers himself again with a free, loud moan. There's something almost fragile in his eyes when he looks back up at Ringil's face, something that threatens to tear apart strands of Ringil's heart, and so Ringil grins instead, wildly, before bending down. Without ever letting go of Seethlaw's gaze, he settles his forearms on the bed on each side of the large chest, reaches for the white lips, whispers one last time against them - "So. Fucking. Beautiful." - and plunges his tongue deep into the cool mouth.

Seethlaw reacts instantly. Like a drowning man hanging onto a rescuer, he pulls his arms down and wraps them tight, so tight, around Ringil's back. Ringil rocks his hips, squeezes his arse muscles - revels in the way Seethlaw's breath hitches every time, and his whole body tenses. Still, he waits, until Seethlaw's grip on him doesn't feel quite so desperate, until the cool hands start to run down Ringil's back in a more familiar way, from shoulders to hips and then back up again, until Seethlaw's making those little grunting, hungry noises Ringil has come to know so well.

When, finally, the dwenda can't seem to have enough of Ringil's skin and keeps pulling him closer, ever closer, Ringil breaks the kiss and latches onto the sharp jaw instead. On and on he goes, biting and sucking and kissing his way down the white throat, along the large shoulders, over the wide chest… Seethlaw hisses and growls and begs in response, his body twisting and writhing under Ringil's, each move in turn feeding Ringil's hunger as the cool skin rubs against his hard prick.

And then suddenly, Seethlaw's hands are on Ringil's hips, pulling them mercilessly down, and Ringil can feel Seethlaw's muscles move under his thighs and arse, and he can hear rustling moves behind him. He smiles in mounting anticipation as his teeth lightly squeeze a hard nipple, and the tip of his tongue teases it, and Seethlaw moans and shudders even as he finishes to pull his legs into a bent position, all the better to—

Even prepared for it, Ringil cries out, long and loud, when the first forceful thrust sends sparks running along his nerves, down his legs, up his back, all the way into his arms and head.

And then Seethlaw does it again, and again, his huge cock pushing deep and hard into Ringil's arse, and it's Ringil's turn to lose his mind. He finds himself crumbling ever more heavily on top of Seethlaw, his strength robbed from him by the pitiless, inescapable pleasure invading him much faster than he can control it. His face drags blindly over the large chest until it finds its favourite place, nestled in the crook of Seethlaw's neck, with his forehead digging into the pillow covered with the dwenda's hair. From here, Seethlaw's rushing, gulping breaths are loud like thunder, and Ringil relishes every single one of them he can catch between two waves of overwhelming bliss, along with the grunts and the moans, and oh, the pleading half-words in the dwenda's native tongue!

Seethlaw's hands on Ringil's hips are slipping now, as sweat drenches Ringil's body, but he doesn't let go, puts them back into place again and again. His pelvis is pumping up at a punishing pace, relentless and unwavering and not weakening in the least. Ringil feels the first strands of his orgasm coil in his groin and thighs; he tries to warn Seethlaw with a hand pawing helplessly against a large shoulder. Seethlaw's only answer is to dig his fingertips even harder into Ringil's hips, adding yet another thread of pleasure-pain to the bliss rushing through Ringil's system.

He's going to lose it any time now. His fingers are holding onto cool, solid flesh. His mouth is open, biting down onto strong shoulder muscles. He feels both sweat and tears running down his cheeks. His whole body is shaking, straining under the twin imperious demands of current pleasure and impending release. And rising from his chest and vibrating up his throat, there's a helpless moan, an unformed plea, an unworded begging, pouring out of him in rhythmic bursts along with Seethlaw's merciless plunge up his arse.

He comes first, spilling hot and slick between their stomachs, but he's still riding his orgasm, still high on his wave of pleasure, when Seethlaw's breath catches, and his hold on Ringil's body turns into a vice. The slim hips don't come back down after one last thrust and instead shudder harshly against Ringil's groin - and Ringil knows that Seethlaw has fallen along with him.

He smiles, helplessly. He drinks in Seethlaw's shivers and gulping pants, lets them twine around his own ebbing waves of pleasure. The odd, ever-present tears are still leaking from his closed eyes, but even though he can't think anymore, can't align two ideas, he's still deeply aware of one thing: this time, they are definitely happy tears.

He has neither strength nor focus enough to do anything more than that, so he smiles, and cries, and sinks into Seethlaw's presence, into the cool body under him, the long hands on his hips, the slippery stomach against his own, and the softening cock in his arse. He has no intention of falling asleep like this, but he _will_ take his time to enjoy this moment of shared bliss and quiet victory…

He waits until both their breathings have come back to normal before pushing himself back. His muscles are still weak from pleasure, and his arms tremble a little, but he doesn't pay them any heed. He lays a kiss at the corner of Seethlaw's jaw on the way and is a little disappointed not to get any reaction… until Seethlaw's hands just slip and fall limply as Ringil straightens up. Ringil glances at the pale face and lets a short, incredulous bubble of laughter pop out of his throat when he realises that Seethlaw has simply gone straight to sleep, _again._ Bemusedly, he stares into the gorgeous slumbering face, and feels once more that wonderful giddiness take form in his chest and spread into his whole being. It brings a slippery, almost painfully wide smile to his lips, and—

He forces himself to back away quickly, and nearly jumps off the bed before he has a chance to fully experience the far too sweet and gentle sensation seeping through his limbs, urging him to reach with lips or fingertips for Seethlaw's skin, wherever he can find it. He runs to the bathroom, pretends not to notice how he's stomping down on his emotions...

It doesn't take him much time to clean up. He brings back a couple of wet towels and a dry one. Seethlaw barely reacts, only groans and huffs a little, when Ringil drags them over his belly and groin; by the time Ringil comes back again from the bathroom, the dwenda has rolled himself into a ball on his side. Ringil very firmly ignores the warmth filling him all over at the sight. Instead, he pretends to be annoyed that he has to work the blankets from under Seethlaw's fast asleep body, until he can lie down on his back behind Seethlaw, not bothering to pull any of his clothes back on. He arranges the covers over both of them and finally closes his eyes with a deep sigh of contentment.

— And then Seethlaw slithers back and Ringil's heart jumps into his throat and his eyes snap open again.

Carefully, he turns on his side and reaches around Seethlaw's waist with an arm. He stops breathing for a moment when Seethlaw nestles more closely still in his embrace… He can't even remember Seethlaw ever sleeping, back in the marsh and the Grey Places; he most certainly can't remember anything like _this_ ever happening!

He's definitely not complaining, though, and as he closes his eyes again, he curls his lips against a wide, cool shoulder, takes a deep sniff which brings so many different smells into his nose - sea and semen and sweat and soap - and, abruptly, falls asleep.

***


	31. Archeth

Archeth was on tenterhooks. She was forcing herself to take her time going through the single twig of krin she wanted to allow herself tonight. She'd had one in the morning, while taking a long bath after coming back from Egar's rooms, to finish calming her nerves and to help her focus on the day to come. It had carried her over lunch and into the afternoon debriefing.

She hadn't known quite what to expect from that meeting, and she'd been pleasantly surprised to find everyone in a tentatively hopeful mood. Mahmal Shanta, unsurprisingly, was of the opinion that no conclusions could be reached yet, and more meetings were needed before making any decision. Hanesh Galat seemed almost entranced by his first face-to-face encounter with a dwenda, and even the renewed testimonies as to the existence of the demon gods didn't seem to faze him quite as much as Archeth would have feared. As for Faileh Rakan, as displeased as he was by the revelation that he couldn't hope to keep anyone properly safe whenever they would meet with Ringil in the house on Replete Cargo Street, he found some comfort in the fact that neither Ringil nor the dwenda had so much as mentioned the attack on Khangset, which he was willing to take as a sign that Ringil meant it when he said that he wanted to work out a peaceful, diplomatic solution.

The possibility of another expedition to Ennishmin, on the other hand, didn't seem to fill any of them with any kind of enthusiasm. Shanta made no secret of the twin facts that he would very much like to see that weapon, and that there was simply no way he could hope to join them on a trip to the heart of a marsh. He would have to rely on whatever notes could be brought back to him, and this quite clearly broke his old engineer's heart. Galat was nervous, but held no particular opinion on the matter. As for Rakan, it was blatantly obvious that he wanted nothing to do with the idea of walking straight into dwenda territory, but he wasn't going to contradict Archeth to her face.

Egar, meanwhile, kept mostly silent and only said that he trusted Ringil and Pelmarag so far, and that if Archeth wanted to go back to Ennishmin, then he would obviously come along. He seemed unusually pensive, and Archeth couldn't help but wonder if anything had happened in the few hours since she'd last seen him. But he didn't volunteer any information, and she wasn't going to ask him in front of the others, so that matter would have to wait.

Neither of them, of course, mentioned the morning visit she had received. It would do no good to anyone to let it be known that the demon gods were trying to force her hand. Rakan might even ask that the talks be put on hold until he could figure out a way to keep her safe, and that was the last thing Archeth wanted at the moment. She thought it better to keep them all in the dark, since there was nothing any of them could do about it anyway - while also hoping that the damn demon gods wouldn't go after one of them in turn. Though, admittedly, she did wonder what kind of reception faithful Rakan and Galat, and rational Shanta, would offer the northern gods...

They were done by late afternoon. Archeth let them all go, with renewed orders to leave her alone in her rooms. None of them seemed to find this strange, since they all intended to spend time engrossed in their own studies anyway, whether they be historical for Shanta, cultural for Galat, or geographical for Rakan, who seemed both vexed and perplexed as to where exactly the dwenda could be hiding in Ennishmin. Archeth wondered if Egar would try to talk to her, but he chose instead to join Rakan and share whatever knowledge of the marshes he had garnered when working there. She let him go; if what was on his mind was important enough, he would reveal it to her sooner or later.

And so now here Archeth was, having had another light dinner delivered in, which she had barely touched, so anxious was she about what she hoped the evening might bring. She preferred to pull slowly on her krinzanz, lounging in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. She had removed her knife belt, keeping only Falling Angel in her boot. She wasn't sure why she'd done that; it left her almost defenceless should Kwelgrish or one of her companions show up again, and it wasn't like the dwenda seemed worried about her weapons. Still, she'd only briefly fought the impulse before giving into it, dropping the knives on her bed after unlocking the balcony door and leaving it barely ajar.

 _Both Grashgal and your father would be horrified._ She felt her mouth quirk as the dear faces crossed her mind, looking aghast, and torrents of worried recriminations falling from their lips. Yes, they would be, and with good reason, she was only too aware of it. But she wasn't just another mechanism they had built; she was a person - her _own_ person - and she was going to act like it.

 

* * *

 

They came quietly. She didn't hear them walk in; she only noticed when the balcony door clicked softly when they closed it behind them.

She couldn't quite refrain the smile on her lips as she jumped to her feet and turned to them. She watched impatiently while, once again, they pulled their helmets off and shook their hair loose. Just like yesterday, she couldn't see any weapon on them, and she felt strangely vindicated for disarming herself so visibly. What she was trying to prove to whom, she had no idea, but it still felt like she had made some kind of important point anyway.

"My lady," Seethlaw said as they both bowed to her.

She answered in kind. When she straightened up, her gaze crossed Risgillen's - and was, once again, trapped there. Her heart beat harsh and fast in her chest; she fell into that blank stare, the pitch eyeballs shimmering gold and red in the light of the fire. There was, she vaguely noticed with an undeniable pang of guilty pleasure, a small, almost shy smile on the long, white lips...

It was Seethlaw who handed her a sealed parchment roll. She hadn't been looking, and so didn't see where he'd produced it from, but she wouldn't have been surprised if he'd pulled it out of his sleeve, somehow, in a reverse move of what his sister had done the night before. The seals were blank; Ringil had never owned, let alone used, a personal stamp. She broke them and unfurled the missive. Just like on her own letter, there was no name mentioned anywhere, neither of a sender nor of a recipient. There was no signature, nor anything which could help identify the author of the few lines, apart from the handwriting itself - a handwriting she remembered quite well from the too rare but treasured letters Ringil had sent her from the various parts of the League territory or the Majak steppes he had lived in after leaving the Empire.

Far more than the handwriting, though, it was the content of the short text which truly convinced her, without the shadow of a doubt, that it had been freely penned by Ringil Eskiath.

_On the battlefield, it is undeniable that having access to a greater variety of weaponry than the enemy armies presents a definite advantage. The wider your inventory, the stronger the likelihood of your not only finding an adequate means of neutralising any attack you may endure, but also of devising tactics against which your enemy will not be prepared nor able to defend themselves._

_Strangely enough, this consensus does not quite carry to the negotiations table. While many consider diplomacy as merely another type of warfare, and as such are both willing to use any technique to advance their cause, and expect their counterparts to do the same, there are some who would voluntarily deprive themselves of some tools, or impose restrictions on their words or actions. Most often, this reticence comes from strongly held moral or religious obligations, matters of honour or piety, which would demand deliberate weakening of one's position rather than the use of what would be considered intolerable methods._

_Still, there is a general agreement among the various human people, as well as among the non-human entities they have ever discussed with, that a certain level of dissimulation of the facts, and of - shall we say - idiosyncratic representation of the truth, is both necessary and unavoidable. It is merely the extant of these inaccuracies which is typically the topic of hot debate. To date, it seems humanity has never encountered a people to whom the very concept of lying at all would be unfathomable, who would consider a habit which comes so naturally to everyone else as both frustratingly useless and irritatingly wasteful._

_Or maybe it did, long ago, and that knowledge was lost to the ages._

This could have been an excerpt of Ringil's never-published military treaty, and only Ringil himself would have known that nothing could better hope to convince Archeth of the identity of the letter's writer.

As for what it said...

Archeth's throat was dry as she re-read the few, short paragraphs, committing them to memory. She had asked Ringil one simple and yet fantastical question, and his answer could not be clearer. She looked up slowly, to where her two guests were patiently standing, waiting for her next decision. _No, they don't lie._ Archeth felt slightly dizzy as she forced herself to form the words in her head. Even with a whole day to get accustomed to it, the concept still felt desperately, almost hopelessly alien to her...

"Do..." Her voice was trembling slightly. She started again. "Do you know what I asked him?"

"No." Seethlaw, still.

"He didn't tell you, and you didn't ask." It wasn't even a question this time; Archeth already knew this was what had happened, because that was who they _were._ "I hope I didn't get you into troubles with him, by the way?"

Seethlaw smiled softly. "He did shake his head when we gave him your letter, and asked which part of 'I don't want to know' we had missed. But he wasn't angry at all. And then he read it, and asked us the same thing as you just did, whether we knew what was in it. We gave him the same answer, and he just nodded and didn't say more."

Archeth smiled as well as she let the roll curl back on itself. Even through the changes, this was undeniably still the Ringil she knew, her friend who trusted her and who so far still deserved her confidence in return. She turned around and waved towards the fireplace. "Shall we?" She didn't even know what she wanted to discuss with her guests tonight; she just refused to watch them go so soon, for some reason she refused to examine.

She could also have sworn that a look of blatant relief had briefly slackened Risgillen's traits - and in turn, her own heart shuddered, and a silly, stupid, unwarranted warmth filled her guts, just as much as the flames heated her skin as she knelt and fed them Ringil's letter.

In the end, she didn't have to think of a topic herself. Seethlaw barely waited until she'd taken her seat before asking, in a quiet, intense voice, "Why would you help us in this matter? We are your people's enemies."

Archeth stared straight into the white face, into the eyeballs blazing in the fire's light, and replied simply, "For peace."

Neither of the dwenda seemed surprised, but still Seethlaw insisted, "War has always been the only way between our people."

Archeth nodded, but countered, "And yet, Pelmarag said that your people would not seek revenge upon me because I never took part in those wars."

That brought Seethlaw to a pause. "This is true," he eventually confirmed. "Have you not, however, been entrusted with the carrying on of your people's mission regarding the future of humanity?"

"Yes, I have." Archeth wondered just how much these two knew about her - and who had told them about it in the first place - but now was not the time to ask.

"And you don't see the return of the Aldrain as incompatible with that mission?"

She held the blank, fiery gaze for a long time, as she searched within herself not only what the true answer to that question was, but also how much of it she wanted to share at the moment. Finally, she sighed. "My people are gone. They only left me behind because I wouldn't have survived the voyage anyway. They charged me with a mission I never had a choice to accept or refuse. They failed to provide me with all the information I needed to carry it out safely and effectively." Her voice went flat. "So quite frankly, at this point, I don't give a damn about what they might have wanted or done in my place. I will do what I, and only I, think is best for humanity."

Seethlaw nodded. Risgillen cocked her head and whispered, "Peace."

"Yes." And now Archeth's voice was rising, fiercely. "Ever since I was born, all I've seen has been wars, wars and more wars. My father said those wars were the stones that would pave the road to peace, but I never caught so much as a glimpse of that promised peace. When the Lizards came, and the League and the Empire united, for the very first time, against a common enemy, I hoped" — a tear in her throat, a sob; she ignored it, pushed on — "I hoped that finally, peace would be on its way if we survived. Surely, now, humans everywhere would cherish what they had in common, rather than hide behind what separated them?"

And now she had to stop, and to look away, into the bright flames of the fireplace, as the grief, bottomless and unspeakable, overwhelmed her again, as it did every time she thought of how quickly the League and the Empire had gone back to viciously fighting each other, how, far from improving, conditions had deteriorated to never-before-seen levels of animosity and cruelty, on both sides of the border. The League had legalised slavery. The Empire had brutally eradicated its own conquered cities. When all was said and done, _"humanity's finest hour",_ to quote Akal's words, had only given birth to new, ever deeper chasms of depravity.

"That's the reason they left, you know," she whispered, still not looking at either of her guests. "My people. When they saw how quickly humanity went back to its animalistic ways after so brilliantly rising to the occasion and uniting against the Scaled Folk... They just gave up. They realised they were always going to have to use their technology to bring death and doom onto whichever group of humans was the enemy of the Emperor on any given year, and they... couldn't abide by that."

 _"These fucking humans,"_ Grashgal had said. _"If we stay, they're going to drag us into every squalid fucking skirmish and border dispute their short-term greed and fear can invent. They're going to turn us into something we never used to be."_ Archeth still remembered the disgust in his voice...

There was a heavy pause, and then Risgillen's melodious voice rose, softly, so softly. "Yet, they expected _you_ would endure such a life?"

Archeth blinked, as both her mind and her heart reeled at the seemingly simple question. She wasn't used to this! Never before had anyone mentioned how fucking _unfair_ it was that Grashgal should have required her to keep on with the Kiriath mission when he and all the other Captains had abandoned it. Never before had anyone shown any understanding of the impossible situation she was in. Even people like Egar and Ringil, who understood intellectually and were willing to help her as best they could, had never exhibited such an intuitive grasp of the painful nature of the inescapable trap she had been locked into by the very people she had trusted most and who should have had her best interests at heart.

But then again, Egar and Ringil and all humans like them, were not immortal. What would they know of the weight of centuries, of the dread of looking into the future and seeing nothing but misery and violence and hatred, no matter how hard one worked at preventing them? It took another immortal to understand this, and the only immortals Archeth had ever known had gone away, precisely because they couldn't endure the prospect of such a future anymore...

She locked her jaw and swallowed the tears back that were threatening to escape her, as anger - raging, incandescent fury - crystallised in her guts. Anger towards Grashgal for sacrificing her on the altar of the Captains' cowardly betrayal. _You couldn't do it anymore, so you ran, but hey, that's okay, because you left me behind as a token of on-going effort, right!?_ Anger towards Akal and then Jhiral, and towards everyone in power in Yhelteth, who took her and her loyalty for granted, without ever wondering how much it cost her, let alone _caring_ about what she might want. And anger, quite frankly, towards most of humanity, who so openly enjoyed rolling around in its moral filth like a pig in mud. They were happy enough to take what the Kiriath offered them, but oh no, they had no _actual_ intention to work towards peace, no matter that it was the contract they had agreed on.

_Motherfucking arseholes, all of you!_

Humanity hadn't deserved the Kiriath. Humanity didn't deserve _anything_ but to be left alone to reduce itself to rubbles once more.

Ignoring the cracks in her voice, she turned back to the dwenda, looked from one to the other, and demanded, "Peace, I want peace! No more wars, no more pointless fighting, no more slavery! That's what I want, but _those fucking humans_ can't be trusted to want that, let alone to work towards it."

"Ringil can," Seethlaw interjected, softly. "It is precisely what he demanded of me."

Archeth stared at him for a minute, and then choked on new sobs, as rampaging hope and relief piled onto the anger, smothered it, turned it into an almost savage burst of joy. "Yes." She'd seen it, the day before. She had never thought she would ever again see that irrational idealism in Ringil Eskiath's eyes, but she had - and she wanted to be a part of it as well, to have her share of it. "He wants it, and I want it, and at this point, that's all I care about."

Forget the Kiriath mission. Forget Jhiral's petty interests. Hers was a far bigger dream - and if she had to ally herself with her people's former enemies to fulfil it, then she would do so without hesitation.

"Do you think you _can_ do it?" There was no doubt in Seethlaw's voice, just concern.

Archeth roughly dragged the heel of her hand over her eyes, to wipe away the unshed tears. "Do what?"

"Convince the Emperor to give us Ennishmin without a war?"

She scowled. "No, I don't think I can do it, but I'll make it happen anyway." Both dwenda looked confused, so she explained further, spitting out each word, "Ennishmin has no value to the Empire except as a political card. I am not - _not!_ \- letting anyone, not even His fucking Radiance himself, start a war over it." And then, because suddenly she wanted it out in the open, because she didn't like the way it hung in the back of her mind like some infected wound, she stated it, resolutely, "Especially not against a people who can do what I saw in Khangset."

She saw the incomprehension - and then the sudden realisation, and the way they looked away. Most of all, though, she saw how they didn't even try to deny it, and so she pushed again, lancing the abscess deeper. "It was a navigational accident, wasn't it? You were supposed to end up in Ennishmin, right?"

They shared a strange knowing glance, as if confirming something to each other, before once again simply admitting to the truth. "Yes," Seethlaw said. "We didn't take part in it, but we knew about it, and it was indeed supposed to be an invasion of Ennishmin, not..."

"Khangset."

"Yes." His nose wrinkled. "The plan was badly conceived, barely prepared, and terribly carried out. The ones in charge of it were not warriors, and they made a complete mess of it." He abruptly looked away, and there was an awkward hesitation in his voice when he concluded, "We apologise for this unjustified act of war against the Empire, and for the resulting loss of human lives."

Archeth frowned. "It wouldn't have been any more justified had they landed in Ennishmin as planned."

Seethlaw looked back at her. He had regained his poise when he explained, far too calmly, "That would depend on who you consider to have the greater claim to Ennishmin."

Ah. Yes, that made sense, she supposed. If the dwenda thought Ennishmin belonged to them to begin with, then an attack there to drive the Empire out would be legitimate in their eyes. In that case, though, "Why _didn't_ you go for that solution?" And while she was at it, "What was your plan anyway then?"

The silence which followed her enquiries was short, but it was oppressive, heavy and sticky like the air in the deepest caves of An-Monal. There was no missing the reluctance in Seethlaw's voice when he finally answered, "Ringil expressly bade me not to discuss these specific matters with you or anyone associated with you."

Archeth kept her surprise under control, and forced herself to think. She remembered what Seethlaw had said earlier, about Ringil not wanting any more fighting. She remembered what Ringil had said the day before, about how he was working at undoing Seethlaw's plan, because while his goals might be the same as the dwenda's, his methods weren't. She remembered that whatever contract Seethlaw had been concluding with the League, it was never meant to include the Empire.

The conclusion was obvious. In one way or another, Seethlaw had been meaning to start some kind of conflict, most likely between the League and the Empire. It was no wonder Ringil wouldn't let him keep at it...

"All right then." She raised her chin, but kept her voice quiet. "I want peace. Ringil wants peace. What about you and your people?"

Seethlaw showed no hesitation this time. "We want Ennishmin, and we will follow Ringil as long as he keeps the promise he made us to obtain Ennishmin for us." He shook his head slightly. "War may be the only way we know, but that doesn't make it the only way we _want._ We find no enjoyment in killing, and would much rather have peace than war if that is indeed possible."

"If it were anyone else, I'd say they are deluding themselves." Archeth felt a grim but determined tone slip into her voice. "But if there is one person in the entire fucking world I'd trust to pull off such a miracle, it would be Ringil." She was stopped short by the twin small smiles which appeared on the two dwenda's faces. "... What?"

It was Risgillen who answered. "These exact words he said about you too."

Archeth knew that human eyes could not detect when a Kiriath blushed. Right now, she fervently hoped that dwenda eyes couldn't do it either, even as she both tried and refused to figure out whether she was more pleased with Ringil's trust in her, or with the fact that the two dwenda - _or just Risgillen, be honest, Archidi_ \- seemed to believe him and hold her in equally high esteem.

"Uh..." She cleared her throat. "Yeah, well, we know each other quite well, Gil and I, and..." This was pathetic. This was beyond pathetic. _Come on, pull yourself together already!_

Thankfully, Seethlaw's next question, unpleasant as it was, helped her do just that. "Why do you want to go to Ennishmin?"

She frowned. She'd already explained that to Ringil and Pelmarag, hadn't she? And she had no doubt her answer had been transmitted to these two here. So why were they asking again? She had no idea, and so she went for one of the most straightforward reasons she could give. "I want to see that weapon up close."

"Why?"

She was stumped for a moment. It seemed like her motive should be the most obvious thing in the world, and yet she struggled to put words on it. In the end, she could only say, rather lamely, "Because it's Kiriath." It was a part of the Kiriath world she had never known about before, and she wanted it - needed it - in her life now that she'd learnt about its existence.

Seethlaw shook his head slightly. He seemed weary as he replied, "As far as we can tell, it's only a weapon. It will not talk to you, nor answer any question you may have."

The sudden feeling of profound, chaotic grief which instantly filled her, told her he had guessed right, figured before she did what she was truly hoping for. It was like when Pelmarag had failed to answer her in her own native tongue, except infinitely harsher. _So that's what this is about, eh, Archidi? Still desperately looking for someone new to discuss Kiriath matters with?_

She swallowed the acrid disappointment, did her best to hide it as she calmly faced Seethlaw. "I'm guessing you would rather I give up on that project?"

He exchanged another glance with his sister before answering. "This is not quite the point. We only wish to provide you with what would best serve your interests."

"My interests, huh?" She didn't bother masking her bitterness this time. "My interests would be in finding something, someone, somewhere, that could tell me just what the fuck really happened all those millennia ago, what my people did, and what I'm supposed to do about it all now." She snorted. "Someone, obviously, that's neither you nor anyone associated with you like Ringil, because as much as I'd love to just be able to believe anything you tell me, that's simply not how these matters are conducted." One last dismissive wave of her hands. "So unless you happen to know of a lonely Helmsman, or a lost Kiriath tribe, conveniently tucked away somewhere just waiting to deliver their wisdom to me and my associates, I'm afraid that weapon in Ennishmin will have to do for now."

She'd finished talking before she noticed the odd, flat look which had suddenly settled on both dwenda's faces. This time, it was a lot more than a glance they exchanged. Risgillen's tone was urgent as she whispered to her brother in their tongue. Seethlaw grimaced and sounded very weary once more when he answered her; Archeth thought she caught Ringil's name in his reply. Risgillen clicked her tongue and seemed annoyed at him, but she still had a tight smile to spare for Archeth when she turned back to her and concluded, "We must go. Much we must discuss before you meet Ringil and Pelmarag again tomorrow."

She was already standing up and gathering her hair. Archeth fumbled to her own feet, barely managing to conceal her disappointment behind a forced grin. "I think you're in for another remark from Gil about how he didn't want to know."

She caught the way Seethlaw sighed dejectedly before he lowered the visor on his helmet. "I believe this will be the least of our problems, my lady."

***


	32. Seethlaw

At first, all you feel is the warmth. Soft, beautiful warmth, which diffuses throughout your body like light fills a dark room.

You’re waking up, but so slowly, as though sleep were a living thing refusing to let you go. Usually, that would worry you, alarm you, but not this time. That warmth means safety; you know that, deep in your bones, even if you don’t know how you know it.

You open your eyes. You’re on your side, facing the window. The sun is low on the horizon, already turning the underside of the clouds violent shades of red and purple.

That’s strange, though: the sun is outside, and in front of you, but the warmth comes from behind you. From behind you, where—

Oh.

Your heart rocks inside your chest as you remember, and as you _notice._

Notice that you’re naked. Notice that there’s a body plastered against your back. Notice the arm wrapped loosely and heavily around your waist. Notice the almost inaudible, slow and regular breath, and the barely perceptible tickle of air on the back of your neck which accompanies it.

_Ringil._

Ringil, who took you swimming, and then…

And then.

The memories flood your mind now. Emotions and sensations, sights and sounds. The taste of Ringil’s mouth, seasoned with sea salt. That soft-over-hard feel of his body as you hung onto him, and then as he laid you down on the bed and loomed over you and you kept pulling him closer - closer, closer, oh please closer! His hands, his hands everywhere, giving and taking and—

The heat of his body, of his skin against yours, but also—

You close your eyes again, just for a minute, just long enough to take a few deep breaths and calm the already frantic beating of your heart. Because you can. Because you know you can afford it now. You can afford to relax, and to _trust._ You still don’t quite grasp how he thinks, but you know what he said - _”I told you, didn’t I? I don’t want to hurt you”_ \- and you know what he did, even if you don’t understand why it seemed so important to him.

And now he’s here, not just sleeping next to you, but holding you, not just sharing a bed with you, but asking to share your entire life as well. _“Talk to me, Seethlaw. I can’t guess what’s going on in your head.”_

You still don’t know how or why it happened. You can’t tell when he changed his mind, but he did, and when you gave him a new chance, when you forced yourself to take another chance on him, he more than proved that you could depend on him, on his indomitable strength, no matter how fragile.

You leaped, and he caught you, and now he’s here with you.

You carefully turn in his loose embrace. He keeps sleeping. You smile as you raise your hand and lightly, so lightly, trace the line of his jaw. He’s so beautiful, inside and out… When he’s awake, his gaze steals your breath. “Angel eyes”, they call him, and he truly deserves that title. You can so easily lose yourself in those eyes… And then there’s that burning flame inside him, the one only you can see, the one that attracted you to him, helplessly, inexorably, because you were born to find him.

Your fingers sweep down the length of his neck, stop briefly and lightly, so lightly, on his pulse point, where his heart beats so strongly and steadily, and then continue their course towards his chest and shoulder. They trace curves there, smooth and spontaneous and meaningless beyond the sheer, simple pleasure of exploring his skin once more.

He doesn’t open his eyes when he wakes up, just smiles softly and stays put. You bring your hand back up to his face, brush it against his bent lips. He lets you, pressing the ghost of a kiss against your fingertips when they linger for just a moment.

He’s happy like that, you realise, and it makes your heart shudder.

He’s happy. He _wants_ this; he really does. He’s told you so, and now he’s once again proving it in his acts. He wants to be here. He wants you to live. He wants to help you fulfil your mission.

It seems impossible. You were so sure you had lost him! You can’t help it; the question slips out of your mouth. “Do you really want to know?” _Know about me. Know how I think, how I feel. What I need, what I want._

He keeps his eyes closed as he answers without a moment of hesitation. “Yes.”

Your own voice is a whisper now, crushed under the enormity of what he’s offering, what he’s demanding. “About everything?”

“About as much as I need to know to understand. And anything else you might want to share.”

And here he does it again, and you feel your breath catch at the shock of it. He asks for so much, and you know he will find ways to take it if he has to - and yet at the same time, he limits himself to what he needs to attain his own stated goals. The rest, he leaves up to you. Up to you to decide how much of it you will admit to, if any.

Why does he do that!?

Doesn’t he know he’s entitled to _all_ of it?

Your fingers have stopped moving as you pondered that question, and now _that_ seems to bother him. He still doesn’t open his eyes. Instead, he straightens the arm loosely wrapped around you, then bends it again until his big hand settles on the small of your back. He’s not pulling, not pressing; he’s just _there_ , warm and safe and strong. This is not an order; it’s an invitation. He wants you closer, but he won’t force you.

Doesn’t he know that it took everything you had to refuse him before? That you wouldn’t dream of doing it again, and that you don’t think you would manage it if you tried anyway?

You slither closer until your lips are on his collarbone, and your nose presses into his throat. Your arm reaches around his chest, and your legs tangle with his, and you smile as all the rough hair on him tickles you. You breathe in his scent, sweat and salt and semen, and you feel your prick hardening against his thigh.

You can’t help but laugh when he asks, in a voice he very obviously tries to keep as light as he can, “What is it about the sea that makes you so horny?”

Oh, how can he not understand? “It’s not the sea.” Your voice is slightly muffled, so reluctant are you to let your lips leave his skin. “It’s just you.” It’s just him, who he is, what he does - and what he doesn’t do, too. It’s just him, the light he fills your mind with, the warmth he fills your heart with. You sigh and press a closed-mouth kiss against his throat, and add, “The sea does help,” because it does, it helps you relax so wonderfully, and the way Ringil seemed so happy to share it with you did things to your soul that you still don’t dare to look too closely at, but still, “Most of it is you, even then.”

It’s him, and how much you want him, even _need_ him.

Your next kiss is an open-mouthed one, and it is followed by another one on his jaw, even as your hand on his back hungrily slides down to first cup the curve of his arse, and then dig your fingertips into the meat of it.

He doesn’t resist when you pull him on top of you. The weight of him stokes the flames of lust in your belly, turns them into a raging fire throughout your body. You want him; you need him. “Gil… It’s been so long…” The words slip out of your mouth at the same time as you open your thighs, and it’s a wave of intense relief and renewed desire which washes over you when this time he doesn’t protest in any way.

He just hums and claims your mouth, and lets you spread yourself wide, and wrap your legs around his hips. He props himself up on one elbow. His free hand is on your jaw, on your throat, on your chest. His fingertips catch on your nipple, and your hips jerk in response, pushing your needy erection into his belly. You hear him groan, and you feel it too, a rumbling travelling from his body to yours.

His tongue plunges into your mouth, deep - and then he pulls back. He kneels between your legs, and pins you down with a gaze. He doesn’t look away - doesn’t let _you_ look away - as he settles his big, warm hands on the inside of your knees, and slowly drags them up your thighs. You freely let out the moan of anticipation which rises in your throat…

And then the plea of frustration which cuts it off when his thumbs stop just shy of your balls. “Gil!”

He smiles, half soft and half hard, and your heart flips over.

He looks down and lifts one of his hands. You don’t have time to mourn the loss, because half a second later, a spike of pleasure drills through you when his fingertips squeeze your prick’s head, and gather the liquid leaking from it.

You close your eyes and try to remember how to breathe when those wet fingers move to your hole, rub against it and around it, tease it and prod it - and now you’re fucking _whining_ , and writhing, because it’s too much and not anywhere enough, too good yet far too light!

“ _Gil…_ ” You already can’t remember the words in Naomic for _more_ , and _please_ , and _just fucking stick it in!_ You can only push back against his probing fingers, and fist the sheets to stop yourself from wrapping your hands around your almost painfully hard, begging dick.

You don’t know why he’s taking so long this time. Or maybe you do, but you can’t bear to think about it. If you look too closely, it will be like what happened earlier: something too soft and too warm and too big - something just like him - for you to face without too many things threatening to break inside. So you set it aside, to be examined later, and you focus on enduring this pleasure which is too much and not enough, until he’s satisfied and decides to move on, whenever that happens, and whatever the unfathomable reason for it is.

You’ve almost lost your voice by the time he stops playing with your hole with his fingers. The bed moves a little as he positions himself… Your head rolls back, and you shiver all over, but you barely make any sound as finally, _finally_ , you feel his prick - big and hard and hot - nudge at you, and enter you, slow and steady and oh, so wonderful!

He stops moving when he’s fully sheathed inside you, and it might as well be time itself which stops, be the entire world, _all_ the worlds and the Grey Places in-between as well. He’s in you again, filling you - not just your body, but your mind and your heart and your soul as well. He’s the other half of yourself. He’s—

“Seethlaw.” His voice is so low, you’re not even sure you really heard it. “Look at me.” It’s coarse, too, roughened by the same fire running through your veins.

You open your eyes, force yourself to drag your gaze down from the ceiling to where he’s kneeling between your bent and splayed legs. Your cock strains at the sight, but you ignore it. All your attention has been captured by those angel eyes, darkened by lust and staring at you like he’s some great hunting beast about to swoop down upon you.

You remember earlier today. You remember what he did, and what it did to him. Slowly, your gaze never leaving his, you raise your arms over your head, spread yourself even wider and more open - and sure enough, you hear his breath hitch, and you see those angel eyes widen and roam down your body to take in all of you, to claim all of your bare, complete offering.

And then quickly, suddenly, he gathers your legs, one after the other, settles them over his shoulders, and dives onto you.

You roll your hips up with the move, and his prick plunges even deeper into you, as he settles his hands on the mattress on either side of your chest, and reaches straight for your lips. The first kiss is almost violent in its urgency, but a long moan escapes him when his tongue meets yours, and you feel him relax, as though he were a drowning man who found air to breathe in your mouth.

He takes his time to start moving, and when he does, the rhythm he sets is disconcertingly slow. You’re used to rough and fast, not to this almost delicate affair. But if this is what he wants, then this is what you will take.

It’s not even bad, you reflect as you close your eyes once more, and let the sensations wash over you: his flickering tongue, his firm lips, the way your prick is trapped between your bodies and drags, slowly, agonisingly, against both your skins as he rocks the two of you back and forth. And of course, there’s his own dick in you, pulling out, leaving you achingly empty, and then pushing back in - the sweet and inexorable pressure of it mounting inside you, and the relentless rubbing against those almost unbearably sensitive parts…

You take it all in, the weight and warmth of his body bending you double, the slick and scent of the fresh sweat which begins to cover him again, the grunts he makes as he struggles to breathe through his nose because he refuses to stop kissing you - the way he whimpers against your mouth when you start squeezing your arse in sync with his thrusts.

Going so slowly like that, it’s going to take forever for either of you to reach orgasm - and you find that you don’t mind. This… All this… It’s like taking a walk through the marsh for the sheer enjoyment of it, instead of running to reach some predetermined destination. It’s its own pleasure, isn’t it? It’s a surprisingly delicious balancing act between the nearly all-consuming need for _harder, faster, deeper,_ and the reluctance to let go of this, of this skin-to-skin dance which feels _so fucking good_ you never want it to end…

When he lowers himself onto his elbows, slips his forearms under your shoulders, and pulls you even closer, tighter, you bring your arms back from where you’d laid them over your head, and run your hands along his arms, up his neck into his hair, down to his shoulders… He’s shivering now, and he’s losing control of his thrusts. They are harsher, and they definitely come faster. He's groaning with each of them, and you would smile if your mouth wasn’t so full of him.

This is good; this is wonderful.

Once again, you trusted him to set a new path, and once again, he showed you ways you had never even imagined.

Once again, you leaped, and he caught you, and now you’re both shuddering as you climb together towards new summits.

You mourn when he breaks the kiss and pulls back. But then he’s slipping your legs over his shoulders and wrapping them around his waist instead, and he's whispering, “Grab on,” and you hold tight, with your arms around his neck and your hole around his cock, while he pushes the two of you into an upright position. He kneels, legs spread, and settles you in his lap, with a hand under your arse and the other behind your back. He brings your foreheads together; he stops moving for a moment, and once again, it’s all the worlds, it’s time itself, which stop with him…

There’s only him, warm, determined, strong under soft. Only him, inside of you, around you, all over you. Only him, only those eyes, when he raises his head again and looks at you, like he did earlier, like he’s never seen you before. Only him and that smile on his lips, almost disbelieving, and those words, awe over lust, worship and ownership all at once, “So fucking beautiful…”

You could stay like this forever, your heart swelling and breaking over and over again, your prick whining and rejoicing and your whole body along with it. You would jump and lose yourself in those eyes forever if only you could. You would—

His hand on your arse moves, barely, a flutter, the ghost of a caress, and it’s too much, _too fucking much!_

You reach forward, pull on his neck, seek his mouth with yours. You’re drowning and you need his lips, his tongue, more than you need air. He grunts, and now his fingers dig into your skin, and his hips stutter, and _yes, please yes, please fuck me, please!_

The two of you quickly find a rhythm, fast and harsh, and this time he doesn’t stop. His hand on your back moves between your bodies, grabs your prick, starts pumping. You moan as you feel the heat gathering in your groin. Your head tilts back; he groans, licks up your throat. When he bites at the angle of your jaw, it goes straight to your prick, pools the fire together, pulls your balls tight.

Your hips stagger; your whole body shudders as you come all over his hand and stomach, with his name slipping from your lips again and again.

“Fuck…” His voice is so hoarse, you barely recognise it. His head falls onto your shoulder, and you feel it: the hot slick in your arse as he thrusts into you one last, two, three times, and wraps both his arms around you and holds onto you as though he would crumble if he let go.

His breath is burning along your collarbone. His body is slippery with sweat. His and your hair are sticking everywhere. He's crying, softly, quietly, as he always does.

And somewhere deep, deep inside, you wish you could die here and now, just like this.

Just like this, before you have another chance to ruin everything.

Just like this, forever…

But forever never lasts, and soon, too soon, he’s looking up again and—

And you forget about dying. You forget about mistakes. You forget about everything except that immense grin on his face, and that light in his angel eyes, and the still somewhat breathless way in which he asks, “What would you say to a bath? I desperately need one this time.”

***


	33. Egar

Ringil was in a rather bad mood, though Egar didn't think anyone who didn't know him well would notice. A series of quick glances as they all sat down at the war table confirmed that Rakan, Shanta and Galat weren't paying him any particular attention. Archeth, however... Well now, that was interesting. Archeth had _definitely_ taken stock of Ringil's upset - it showed in the way she was carefully looking anywhere but at him - but she seemed determined to pretend it wasn't there, almost as if...

As if she'd already known it would be this way.

_Just what have you been up to, Archidi?_ Egar wasn't worried, only curious. Officially, his two friends had not been in any kind of contact since the last time they'd met here. Officiously, however, between Archeth's confession the day before and the silent conflict now, it was becoming rather clear that, somehow, they had exchanged some kind of information - and it seemed that the balance of power in that unacknowledged battle of wills was leaning in Archeth's favour, too.

Pelmarag - wearing, Egar noticed, the same kind of unremarkable civilian clothes the other two dwenda on the balcony had been wearing the other day - opened the talks, somewhat hesitantly, after sliding a glance at a frowning Ringil. "My lady," he started, and his tone was unmistakably apologetic, "regarding your request to be taken to our place of operations in Ennishmin..."

Archeth sighed, but kept her voice mild as she picked up where he'd trailed off. "I take it that's a no?"

Pelmarag winced. "It's... not... quite that simple. The difficulties involved would be considerable, yes, but we would still dedicate all our efforts into making it happen if—"

"No." Ringil stood right back up, looking unnaturally calm. "No, no, no."

And, just like that, he left and slipped out of the room through the side-door.

Pelmarag leaned forward until he could plant his elbows on the table, and took his face in his hands. His shoulders heaved as he breathed in deeply, slowly - once, twice. Then he sat back, expression carefully neutral, and explained, "We have been discussing an alternate proposal to your request, but as you can see, Ringil is quite opposed to it."

"Why?" was Archeth's only reaction.

Pelmarag replied morosely, "Why what?"

"Why is he opposed to it? You've made it clear that taking me to Ennishmin would be a right pain, so why would Ringil refuse to so much as offer me a substitute? That's not in his habit to take that kind of decision on other people's behalf."

For some reason, that brought a short, quickly erased, bitter smile onto Pelmarag's lips. "Isn't it?" He briefly shook his head. "Never mind. To answer your question, the reason he's so opposed to it is that he considers it would be too dangerous to— to myself, and the other Aldrain who would have to come with us."

Ah. Now _that_ was more congruent with the Ringil Egar and Archeth knew. He didn't take decisions for others, no - but he did do his best to protect those under his command. The dwenda had apparently entrusted him with some kind of authority over them, and so he wasn't going to risk their safety if he could help it. That made sense. What didn't make sense was, "But _you_ guys would be willing to do it anyway?"

Archeth nodded to support Egar's question. Pelmarag only shrugged. "We're willing to do whatever might be necessary to bring about the results we seek."

So Ringil was having to hold them back for their own sakes? Huh, no wonder he was in such a bad mood, then. Ringil was a doer, and a leader when there was nobody else to shoulder that mantle. What he was not, was a voice of reason, no matter that he'd done so well at this job two days ago. As a rule, if someone wanted to do something stupid, he either helped them do it as safely as possible, or he left them to their own devices. Finding himself stuck having to talk people down from trying something dangerous... That was neither his style nor his natural inclination, and it must be getting on his nerves to be trapped into doing just that. And if on top of it all, that option was truly in Archeth's best interest, then he was also caught between two opposing loyalties, which wouldn't help either.

In the silence which rose as Egar and Archeth mulled over Pelmarag's words, angry whispers snapped like distant firecrackers, floating in from the room next door. Ringil's voice was easily recognisable, though not the words he was saying, and there was at least one male dwenda arguing with him. Egar wondered idly if it was the same one he had seen on the balcony along with the female one, the other day...

"The cakes." Archeth was speaking up again, maybe to politely cover the dispute. "And the tea." She had cocked her head as she looked at Pelmarag. "I forgot to ask what you meant by them?"

For a moment, it seemed like Pelmarag had not heard her. When he shrugged, it didn't look quite natural, and his breath was strangely short when he replied, "I was wondering if anyone other than me still remembered."

_Still remembered what?_ Egar was mystified. From the look of it, so were Rakan, Shanta and Galat. Archeth, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly what Pelmarag was alluding to.

"How did you know I _would_ know about them, though? Just because I was alive back then, doesn’t mean I necessarily had an opportunity to sample them."

The dwenda tilted his head at her. There was an oddly intense expression to his traits, and a sad, flickering smile on his lips. "Because _I_ remember. I remember you visiting the camp with your father once, back when he or kir-Grashgal came regularly to confer with the Chieftain." A sharp sourness crept into his tone. "Back when everyone still believed that there was a reasonably peaceful chance to bridge the gap between the Ninth Tribe and that teetering Empire you Black Folk were promoting."

_Eh!?_ Surely Egar had misheard, or misunderstood...?

Archeth, this time, seemed as appalled as he felt. "You…! What? _How?_ "

Pelmarag smiled again, briefly, sombrely. "Under a disguise, obviously. For what it’s worth, nobody in the Tribe knew about my real nature. As far as they were concerned, I was nothing more than an old adventurer from the North who wasn't fond of the sun but had taken a shining to them and decided to live with them for a while anyway."

Archeth frowned. "I don't think so. I mean you no offence, but I hardly think they would have shared the recipe of the Horse King’s Delight with just any old adventurer."

She’d caught him, but he had no shame in admitting to it. The bent of his lips turned surprisingly warm as he seemed to reminisce. "Well, maybe I should have mentioned that I was also in the process of compiling their oral history into written form. I suppose ‘adventurer’ does not quite cover the extent of—"

"Wait, what!?" The blunt, highly impolite interruption had stumbled out of Galat’s mouth. He seemed to realise the impropriety of it when all gazes turned to him in surprise, but even though he blushed rather violently, he refused to be deterred. "Did you mention compiling the oral history of the Ninth Tribe in written form!?"

"Ah." A soft nod of understanding from the dwenda. "Yes, I did."

Galat became outright flustered at these words. "I… But…" He took a deep breath, made a very visible effort to control his excitement and frustration, though his voice still trembled with it when he spoke again. "My lord… My lord, do you have any idea how _valuable_ such an account would be!?"

The bitterness was back, more firmly than ever, on the dwenda’s face. "I daresay I am far more aware of this than you could ever be, my lord Invigilator. I have, after all, been doing this for millennia. I possess records of people you don’t even know ever existed."

This time, even Shanta was unable to hide the greedy curiosity which overtook him at the thought of such a wealth of hidden knowledge. As for Egar, he may pride himself on being a barbarian in Yhelteth, but rubbing elbows - and other body parts - with Imrana had taught him a few things about the importance of education. He had even let her instruct him in how to read, and no matter how often he'd wanted to drop the painfully frustrating process, he'd always come back to it in the end, because there was something intoxicating in expanding his mind and mental horizons in such a way.

He could now clearly read that very same intoxication on Archeth's, Galat's, and Shanta's faces. _Knowledge._ Millennia of history everyone had always thought lost to time forever. Even Rakan could see the potential advantages of such a revelation, though, predictably enough, his thoughts carried him in a somewhat different direction. "If you bothered to consign the lives of humans who had nothing to do with you, then surely you must also have records of your own people's history, and of their encounters with the Kiriath?"

Pelmarag blinked. "Well, yes, we have our own chronicles, obviously. Or at least, we did, back in the days of the Empire. Since then, our record-keeping has been... spotty, to say the least."

"Never mind that," Rakan insisted. "What matters is, do you have a sufficiently detailed account of what happened during the war?"

Pelmarag frowned and looked at Rakan in silence for a moment. When he spoke up, it was in a soft, careful voice. "We do. But what would _you_ do with only our side of the story?"

Rakan waved a hand, in an irritated manner. "It would still be better than this almost complete lack of information, on either side, we have to manage with."

There was a strange half-smile on Pelmarag's face when he wondered, very softly, "Would it?" And then he shook himself. "Surely you must realise that our chronicles, though kept by humans, were written in our language, and that as such, they would be unreadable to any of you."

"Oh..." Egar could almost physically feel the disappointment rushing out of Rakan and everybody else. "Of course."

"More importantly, there's nothing in those texts I couldn't tell you myself. Even what I did not live through, I still learnt from reading them. So if not being able to verify my claims doesn't bother you, then feel free to ask about anything you wish."

A subtle tension weaved its way through the room. Even Egar, who was no diplomat, could see that Pelmarag's offer was two-edged in more ways than one. It wasn't just a matter that he could blatantly lie to their faces and they wouldn't know it; it was also... Well, like any nation which had repeatedly gone to war, both with foreign states and within its own borders, the Empire was always, systematically, confronted to the same patterns which kept emerging in the wake of those conflicts. One of them was the enduring, passionate hatred which so many of the survivors on the losing side harboured towards the winners, well into adulthood, even until their deaths - and they often taught their children and grandchildren to do so as well. Even the more reasonable ones tended to develop an easily provoked defencive streak, where any mention of the war caused them to instantly raise all kinds of emotional shields and hackles.

And indeed, the way Pelmarag had reacted to some mentions of the long-ago past, was typical of the trauma so common to war refugees everywhere. Were it not for his lack of overt aggressivity so far, and for Ringil's implied reassurance, the prospect of dealing with a creature who had once lost a war against the Kiriath and been exiled by them for millennia would be unnerving, to say the least. After all, why would he even _want_ to negotiate anything to begin with? And even if he truly did, how long would that resolve hold him back before a particularly tense discussion, or the wrong word said at the wrong time, sent him flying into a rage?

Archeth was apparently following a similar train of thought. Her voice was awfully quiet when she asked, "Anything I wish? Then tell me: why did you agree to these talks? Why would you put yourself through something like this?"

Pelmarag held her gaze for a long moment. In the utter silence, Egar noticed that the whispers in the next room had quieted down, in volume if not intensity anyway. At long last, the dwenda sighed. "Trust me, I would have happily avoided it if I could, my lady. But you seem to be forgetting one detail." He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, fixed Archeth again. "The Aldrain are immortal. This means that anyone Ringil brought to this table would either have been born before or during the war, and thus would likely have fought in it and certainly endured the final defeat and subsequent exile. Or they would have been born after the war, and thus would have known nothing but the exile, and would have little interest in engaging in long, difficult discussions to negotiate a return to the real world." And then that sour smile reappeared yet again on his lips. "I am in no way special in that respect. Someone had to do it, and..." He hesitated, looked away. "For a number of reasons, it was only natural that this role should fall onto me."

Archeth answered his honesty in kind. She did not try to hide her discomfort as she insisted, "What kind of reasons?"

Pelmarag tapped a fingertip on the tabletop. "Some of them, I would much rather you discovered in their proper context. Others, however, I can reveal right now, though I'm afraid you might not enjoy them in the least." He waited until Archeth nodded, and continued. "Firstly, on a purely practical level, I am one of very few who speak Tethanne. Most of my people don't even speak proper Naomic, let alone any other current human language. So there's that. More importantly, though..." He extended a hand and waved in the general direction of the room next door, where Ringil could still be heard discussing with unseen interlocutors. "As you already know, Seethlaw is the one who started up the project of reconquering Ennishmin for our people. As you likely _don't_ know, however, Seethlaw isn't just anyone. The Aldrain are solitary and wandering by nature, but we still have a society, and a semblance of structure to hold it together. Just like humans and your own people, milady, we are organised in family-based clans, with some considered higher nobility than others - and one clan in particular considered outright royalty."

Egar felt his eyebrows rise and his mouth quirk. _Well, that figures. Fucking the dwenda king himself, are you, Gil?_

"Seethlaw and his sister Risgillen are Prince and Princess of the Aldrain people, both by birth and" — a wince — "through actions they once took." A wave of the hand, to indicate that this wasn't a topic he would delve into at the time. "This in itself is enough to grant them the loyalty of quite a few of us. In my case, it is also compounded by a personal and familial deference: I am their cousin and a lifetime close friend to both of them. As such, I will as a rule gladly cooperate with whichever project is most likely to be of help to them."

"... Even if it means sitting across a negotiation table with a Kiriath."

A thin smile on the white face. "Indeed." And suddenly Pelmarag locked gazes with Archeth, and spoke so quietly Egar almost didn't register what he was saying. "Or, on the other hand, even if it means personally authorising the deployment of the Talons of the Sun."

_The... what?_ Egar blinked, confused. Across the table, Shanta looked just as perplexed. Egar turned his attention back to Archeth, and to Rakan on the other side of her, wondering if they had any more of a clue—

And he caught the moment when Archeth did indeed seem to decipher the dwenda's riddle. Her gasp was plain to hear, and the way her eyes widened in shock spoke for itself. Her voice was strangled and trembling when she croaked out, "You... _authorised_ that!?"

Pelmarag nodded, slowly. His voice remained calm as he explained, "For the record, Ringil didn't want me to tell you, not just yet. But I thought you should know."

And now Rakan seemed to understand as well. Archeth settled a hand on his forearm, even as she forced two more words out of her tight throat, staring the dwenda down. "Explain yourself."

Pelmarag shrugged. "Seethlaw's plan was going to take years. Some thought that was far too long, and decided to forgo stealth in favour of blunt force. They argued that there was nothing the Empire could do in retaliation anyway, so why should we waste time in reclaiming what was ours? We had the military advantage, so why should we not use it?"

And _now_ Egar understood, and Shanta and Galat as well. _Khangset._ The fucker was talking about Khangset! The Talons of the Sun... So that was the name of whatever weapon they had used there? It was fitting, Egar mused, for something which so far had only ever been rivalled in sheer destructive power by dragon spit.

"Indeed." Archeth's voice was all diplomatic velvet over enraged ice. "Then why did Seethlaw not go for that option right from the start?"

Pelmarag paused, seeming to wonder just how much to reveal. "He... was looking at the longer term."

"How so?"

"The ones who supported a direct military intervention knew very little about the Empire and the League. In particular, they knew nothing, or next to nothing, of the Lizard Wars, of the way both nations had allied against a common enemy. Seethlaw knew about that fact, even if only second-hand, and feared a repeat action. He did not want to get our people involved in an open conflict with both the Empire and the League at once, not when we were still just starting to gather back together and re-organise ourselves. He did not want to depend on the threat of the use of the Talons of the Sun to keep the humans at bay indefinitely."

Egar frowned; he could feel the shape of the truth coalescing in the back of his mind, but he wasn't quite—

Rakan, Throne Eternal captain that he was, reached the right conclusion almost immediately. His voice was flat and cold. "He wanted to pit the Empire against the League itself, not against your people."

Egar felt his stomach drop, and watched in disbelief as Pelmarag simply nodded. "Yes."

_But...!_ It was Archeth who voiced the obvious obstacle. "Why would the League play along with such a suicidal plan?"

Pelmarag's voice took on an oddly careful edge. "What suicide, my lady? Seethlaw told the League he could reclaim Ennishmin if they helped him gather some raw material. He told them that if they allowed our people to govern Ennishmin in a semi-autonomous fashion, then in exchange we would declare official allegiance to the League. And he promised them that if the Empire chose to retaliate, we would lend the League the strength of our magical military power." Images of the devastation at Khangset flashed through Egar's mind. "With such allies at their side, the League had very little to fear from the Empire."

He was right. Egar knew it, and even more, he could see it in the grim line of Archeth's and Rakan's mouths. Even with the help of the few remaining Kiriath weapons still stock-piled at An-Monal, the Empire would have been easily brushed aside by those... What had Pelmarag called them? Talons of the Sun? Yes, that.

"And then what?" Shanta's voice was reedy but unafraid. "How long would your people have agreed to remain subjugated to the League? Surely the League must have realised that sooner or later, you would at the very least demand a true independence, if not outright turn against them? At which point, they would be just as helpless as the Empire had been?"

Pelmarag's fingers drummed briefly on the tabletop. Egar caught the move, deciphered it. _What are you trying to hide?_ He paid an even closer attention when Pelmarag answered, in the same cautious tone as before.

"Seethlaw promised them unending allegiance to the League. It would have been in the written, signed accords between the League and our people: as long as the League subsisted, the Free Territory of Ennishmin would remain a part of it, and guarantee it immediate military support in case of a conflict against the Empire."

A catch. There had to be a catch in there, but where? Shanta obviously thought along the same lines; the doubt in his voice was unmistakable when he asked, "He would have enslaved your people for who knows how long, so easily?"

The long white fingers started drumming again, fast and almost like spasms. Pelmarag opened his mouth, closed it again. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, released it slowly. His hand turned into a fist, shivering against the tabletop.

Egar took the plunge. He needed to know - not so much what Pelmarag was so clearly unwilling to reveal, but whether Milacar's certainties were anywhere close to the truth.

"I don't believe Seethlaw lied to them," he started carefully. More specifically, he didn't _want_ to believe this, but Pelmarag didn't need to know that. "But it's quite obvious that his intentions were not as straightforward as what you've presented so far. So... just spit it out. What was the catch?"

Pelmarag opened his eyes then, pinned Egar under the weight of his blank gaze - and Egar's lungs forgot how to breathe. His heart was pounding desperately suddenly. His brain had turned to sluggish mud. All he could see was those pitch-black eyes. All he could hear was his own heartbeat in his ears. Nothing else existed anymore...

And then the dwenda blinked, and Egar was thrown back into reality, into his body, sitting in his chair at the war table, in the drawing room of Milacar's villa on Replete Cargo Street. His breath came in great rushes; cold sweat covered him from head to foot. His heart was still running as wildly as a buffalo pursued by a steppe ghoul, but his mind had cleared, and he could look as Pelmarag nodded sombrely at him.

"The catch, as you call it, Master Dragonbane, is that the League, humans as they are, looked down on Seethlaw's integrity, mistook it for naivety, even stupidity, and assumed they could therefore always manipulate him into doing whatever they wished, once he'd given his word." He tore his gaze away from Egar, focused it on the map of Ennishmin on the table. "Seethlaw came to them alone, asking for help, calling on millennia-old kinship. He demonstrated his power by using it against enemies of the cabal, and never threatened to use it on his new potential allies. So when he promised them political allegiance and military support..." A shrug. "It didn't occur to them to question the exact _extant_ of that loyalty."

Egar heard Rakan pull in a sudden breath of dawning comprehension, but the Throne Eternal kept silent, letting Pelmarag finish to explain the trap the League had walked into.

"Seethlaw did promise military help - but he never specified just how much power the Aldrain would deploy to support their nominal League allies."

Now Archeth went rigid next to Egar, but she too just waited.

"If - or rather _when_ the Empire came to wage war against the League in retaliation for the Aldrain taking Ennishmin over, my people would have helped, as promised."

And now Egar saw it too, in its stomach-turning enormity, and he understood why Ringil would want nothing to do with it.

"But Seethlaw never promised that we would use the full scope of our power, and we would not have. We would only have shared enough of it to balance the League's military strength against the Empire's. We estimated that it would take a decade, maybe two, until both nations had thoroughly exhausted all their resources, at which point the various Free Cities, deprived of both enough internal forces left to keep gravitating towards each other, and of an external enemy to band against together, would be unable to stop the League's political infrastructures from collapsing around them, which would in turn release the Free Territory of Ennishmin from any Accord it had ever signed with a no-longer-existing League."

As he fell silent, Pelmarag raised his gaze again, caught Egar's once more, and stared at him with what looked very much like defiance written all over his face. _Happy now?_

Egar nodded. "Let humanity destroy each other as we are so fond of doing, and claim the ruins and the survivors." He shivered as he pushed the words out, but he had to admit that it was an elegant, if merciless, plan.

Pelmarag didn't reply.

Egar, still holding the blank gaze, concluded quietly. "And now we know why Ringil is so bent on undoing it all."

Pelmarag nodded slowly. "Yes. 'No war', that was his first and foremost condition."

"And no more Khangsets, I would hope?" Rakan hissed, acidly.

Pelmarag looked at him, clearly confused, before he identified the reference. "Khangset? ... Ah." He humphed. "That was a mistake from beginning to end."

"A mistake _you_ authorised and which cost hundreds of human lives!"

The dwenda shrugged. "Seethlaw's plan would have cost a thousand times as many."

"Oh, so you were just trying to limit the number of human casualties?" The sarcasm in Rakan's voice felt like it should have split the dwenda's skin right open.

"No." Pelmarag held the Throne Eternal's incensed gaze. "My only concern was Seethlaw himself."

"... What?"

"He was spending far too much time in the real world, and among the worst kind of crowd, too. It was taking a serious toll on his health. All I cared about was that Tarnval's plan, had it worked, would have cut that charade short, and allowed Seethlaw to return to us." And _now_ he was frowning. "Though really, I should have known better than to trust that lot with a military operation. If I'd so much as taken a look at their preparations, or rather their lack thereof—"

Ringil's voice made them all jump. "Then the dwenda would have invaded Ennishmin, and they would now be locked in a war against both the League and the Empire." He took his seat next to Pelmarag, and looked at Rakan before concluding mildly, "I think we can all agree that as bad as it was, the attack on Khangset was still the best outcome for that particularly ill-fated plan?"

Rakan didn't answer. Nor did Archeth comment in any way. Egar couldn't blame them: this was an especially rough pill to swallow. Ringil nodded. "Right, so let's get back to the business of finding a way to transfer Ennishmin into dwenda hands in some manner that would involve neither another Khangset nor another full-out war between the League and the Empire, shall we?"

Archeth's tone was cold when she replied, "Let's be honest, though. These are exactly the threats you are depending on to convince His Radiance to simply offer Ennishmin to the dwenda on a silver platter, aren't they?"

Ringil's expression briefly turned to stone, which told Egar that Archeth had seen right. Then he sighed and rubbed his eyes with a thumb and middle finger. "Since you want me to be honest, then yes, at its most basic, that's what my plan revolves around."

He sounded tired, but Archeth didn't let that distract her. "And what guarantees would I bring back that the dwenda would stop at Ennishmin? In fact, what guarantees do I have that Ennishmin is even what they actually want, that it's not some kind of decoy they intend to use as a first foothold into the Empire? This will be His Radiance's obvious first question, you know that!"

Ringil grimaced. "And I in turn have no such guarantees to offer you, my lady, and you know _that_." He waved a hand towards the map of Ennishmin between them. "You want some sort of proof that Ennishmin is no common place? Well, I would say that the presence of a massive Kiriath weapon in the heart of it is kind of a pretty big sign, wouldn't you think?" Archeth opened her mouth and Ringil raised his hand. "Yes, I know, you haven't seen it yet. We're working on it. In fact..." He glanced towards the door to the other room. "I have been asked to offer you an alternative trip, to a place that would answer even more of your questions - possibly, even, all of them."

Archeth raised an eyebrow. "And from a more reputable source than anyone present here? Because otherwise, I don't—"

"Oh yes." Ringil's lips bent into a harsh smile. "The _most_ reputable source you could hope for, now that your people are gone."

Egar blinked. That could only mean one thing... Archeth sounded somewhat breathless as she asked, "A Helmsman?"

"Better."

_Better...?_ What the fuck could be better than a Helmsman!? Archeth didn't seem to know either. "As in what?"

Ringil's jaw clearly clamped and bulged as he turned to Pelmarag. The dwenda shrugged. Ringil breathed deeply, looked at Archeth again. "As in, the very Warhelm which helped your father fight that last war against the Aldrain."


	34. Ringil

So it turns out that the giant mirror inserted into the outer wall of the bathroom is like the windows in the bedroom: the material it's made of can be changed into a variety of others, including perfectly transparent glass. Thus, it is now yet another big window, with the same magnificent view over the sea, which Ringil can admire to his heart’s content, while delightfully soaking in a decadently warm, soapy, scented bath and resting his chin on his folded arms on the lip of the tub.

Said tub looked large when Ringil first noticed it, but if possible, it seems even bigger now that he’s in it. At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised in the least if he were told that it’s been magically charmed to be that way. His lips quirk up in amused wonder at the thought, even as his eyes roam over the tortured line of the coast outside, against which the waves come crashing in big white splashes. Overhead, the night sky is already a deep black velvet, studded with stars and scantily illuminated by the Moon sitting right above the horizon, with a few thin clouds running swiftly across it.

Ringil sighs in bone-deep contentment and rounds his back a little bit more to lower himself deeper into the hot water. His muscles are sore from the hours of swimming earlier, and two rounds of sex afterwards certainly didn’t help either. The relentless, softly massaging push of the bath against his body is more than welcome.

He risks a glance to his side, where Seethlaw is also sitting low in the water, with his knees pulled up against his chest, and his arms wrapped around them. He was confused when Ringil suggested they take this shared bath, but he nevertheless willingly followed Ringil's lead, and was even the one who offered to turn the mirror into a window once he understood what Ringil meant to do. He's now staring at the sea outside as well - but between his posture and the tiny frown pulling his brows down, Ringil knows that he’s already back to mulling over some worry or other.

Ringil represses a sigh. He _wishes_ that Seethlaw could just enjoy this moment, take that opportunity to keep their post-fuck relaxed state going for a little longer, but… Well, that’s just not who Seethlaw is, is it? From the moment Ringil met him, the dwenda’s always been high-strung - sometimes anxious, sometimes impatient, sometimes absent, but never carefree. He’s always been immersed in some inner reflection, even to the point sometimes of barely remembering to live on the outside. All things considered, what Ringil accomplished today, both out there in the sea, and in the room next door, is almost a miracle at this point, and Ringil should be glad enough for it.

Because yes, Seethlaw may be back to his moody self already, but he came alive in a way Ringil had never seen before in the embrace of the sea, and in a more familiar way Ringil had not seen in far too long under his hands. That’s definitely a victory, as is the manner in which Seethlaw accepted the rewriting of the unspoken rules between them. The dwenda was confused, impatient, sometimes clearly unsettled as Ringil changed so many things about how they were going to fuck, but he nevertheless allowed Ringil to set the pace and to level the ground between them, without exhibiting any of that dark, twisted energy he’d been brimming with so many times before.

And it’s not just about sex; Ringil knows this, in a manner that is both stupidly obvious and utterly foreign. Ringil holds a power over Seethlaw - over his mind, his heart, maybe even his body - just as surely as Seethlaw’s confusing glamour made Ringil forget he carried the Ravensfriend, back there in the Grey Places. Ringil remembers Anasharal’s words about the Illwrack Changeling and the Aldrain lord who had fallen for him.

_"The Changeling, then, was singled out by a young Illwrack scion more or less from the cradle. They say the child was so beautiful that the Aldrain lord was bewitched despite himself. That he fell in love with all the impulsive passion of his people, and would not be denied... He must, just as the legend says, have been very smitten to bestow such power."_

Anasharal had made it sound like it was romantic love or sexual interest right from the start, even though Cormorion had been but a child when they had met, and Ringil had not wanted to hear about that - and he had been right, he now knows for sure. Anasharal had had a vested interest in presenting Seethlaw in the worst possible light, but Ringil had done well to trust his own feelings on the matter instead. In his own case, Seethlaw may not have known how to express his need for Ringil’s leadership in a better way than sex, but the more time they spend together, the more obvious it becomes to Ringil that sex was always merely a means to an end.

The end being for Ringil to become Seethlaw’s new Dark King - to become Cormorion's successor.

Cormorion was nurtured and raised and molded into becoming the last of the Dark Kings. Risgillen called him "Seethlaw’s great love", but this was never about mere romance or sex. It was always about so much more than that, on both sides. Seethlaw wanted a King, and Cormorion... Ringil remembers the brief time he shared with what was left of Cormorion's soul, when the cursed sword was forced on him. He remembers how stricken he was when Cormorion called out to Seethlaw, told him he was coming home. _Home..._ After more than four thousand years of gut-wrenchingly lonely waiting, Cormorion still remembered Seethlaw, still considered him _home._ More than leaving that prison, more than regaining his reigning place among humans and Aldrain alike, what Cormorion had been looking for, had been longing for, was going home - to Seethlaw.

Cormorion… Ringil doesn't really want to ask about him. He doesn't want to drag that ghost back from the past, but he knows he has no choice. Cormorion still sits as firmly as ever inside Seethlaw's head, just as Seethlaw's memory still motivated Cormorion on that beach in the sword's world. And now that Seethlaw has named him, has designated him as the root of some of his more disturbing behaviour, Ringil can't avoid the issue anymore. If anything, waiting too long could send Seethlaw the message that Ringil doesn't want to talk about Cormorion ever, which would only complicate matters between them even more.

So he takes a deep breath. Releases it slowly. Asks softly, "Is he the one you referred to, back when we were in the Grey Places?"

Seethlaw appears to wake up from a doze, as he so often does when they fall into such meditative moments, but he knows instantly who Ringil is speaking about. He frowns a little harder, seems confused. "Did I?"

"Yeah. At least three times that I can remember."

"What did I say?"

"Once I asked you if I could learn to get rid of my ghosts, and you said that to your knowledge, no human had ever managed it, except maybe for someone who was not truly human anyway. That was him?"

Ringil knows the answer before Seethlaw nods, just from the veil of sadness which settles over the beautiful face. "Yes, it was." The melancholy in the deep musical voice twists something deep inside Ringil’s chest, but he takes it in stride and forces himself to continue.

"And then there was the time when I asked you whether the aspect storm hurts you, and you didn’t get it until you remembered that _he_ always talked about it."

Seethlaw nods again. "Yes, that was him as well." He’s staring at the sea outside, refusing to meet Ringil’s gaze.

"And…" This memory is far more unpleasant, but also far more important. "In Ennishmin, you said that your people’s chronicles were full of human warriors taken in out of pity or love, and you started saying something about you yourself doing it…"

He sees the pain stabbing at Seethlaw. The white lips twitch; the wide shoulders flinch, at the memory of that moment, and Ringil has to hold himself back. He wants to move closer, close enough to reach out and touch Seethlaw, but he has no idea how Seethlaw would react to such an attempt in this overly emotional state.

Instead, he keeps his voice low when he asks, "Cormorion, is that right?" but his stomach clenches anyway when Seethlaw’s eyes close and the dwenda takes a frayed breath.

"Yes." It’s barely more than a whisper. "Cormorion Ilusilin Mayne." And the grief is undeniable now, leaking from each word, each syllable even. "The last of our Kings."

Ringil savagely pushes his own feelings down, focuses only on what he’s _supposed_ to be asking at this point. "Kings? You had humans as kings?"

Seethlaw nods, weakly. "Yes. We had human leaders at every level of our society. We took them in as children, raised and trained them, and then entrusted them with managing both our people."

That’s what Anasharal explained as well, though the Helmsman made it sound like it was a cruel practice. Ringil didn’t care much about making such a moral judgement back then, and now he definitely knows better. Instead, he’s far more interested in the mechanics of that system. "How did you choose them?"

Seethlaw finally turns his face towards him, and opens his eyes. He looks tired but determined. "The Gift. The Illwrack Gift. That’s what it does."

Ringil frowns. He remembers Ashgrin’s words. _"The Illwrack gift is as much a blessing as a curse, and, well…Seethlaw never cared to learn to control that side of it."_ Confused, he asks, "Your gift, you mean?"

He’s surprised when Seethlaw shakes his head. "Not quite. The true Illwrack Gift is the one Pelmarag possesses. Mine is a rare variant of it, a much more specialised version, if you will. Pel can detect every human who is in any way attuned to the Grey Places, to any degree capable of withstanding them. My people would take in all such children, and train them to the best of their individual abilities: some very little, others very much. It wasn’t possible to determine in advance how far any of them would go. Their tolerance to exposure to the Grey Places, and thus their ability to learn our ways, came on a full spectrum, and caution had to be exercised in immersing them. It was a slow but precisely crafted process, aimed at providing the ultimate training for each one of them according to their ability."

Ringil hums. "So he can see it in me as well?"

"Yes. Though obviously, by the time he met you, you had already demonstrated it, by not going insane after I took you into the Margins."

"Right… And you knew you could afford to do that because of your own gift?"

"Indeed. As I said, Pel can detect anyone who is to any degree attuned to the Grey Places, but he cannot tell to which degree. You could say that his gift is wide but imprecise. Mine, on the contrary, is narrow and extremely specific." Seethlaw takes a deep breath, and holds Ringil’s gaze as he explains quietly, "I only find Heroes, apt to becoming Kings and Queens."

_And you are one of them,_ he doesn’t say, prompting Ringil to wonder why he would be holding back on that obvious conclusion. Is he afraid of scaring Ringil away? Of making him angry? _Whatever it is, you can’t really blame him, can you?_ Ringil hasn’t exactly so far demonstrated an ability to handle such revelations with grace or patience…

It’s never too late to change bad habits, though, and to adopt new, better ones. Ringil makes _damn sure_ to keep his voice down when he asks, "Is that what the akiya saw then? What you meant about what I could become?" He knows it is; he knows it only too well, but it needs to be laid out all over again in this life.

Seethlaw slowly nods, still never looking away. "Yes. Had I found you as a child, you could be a King now. You still have that potential."

Ringil manufactures an incredulous little laugh, hopes that Seethlaw doesn’t see through it. "So I’m a Hero, huh? Like in the stories and everything?"

Seethlaw doesn’t laugh back, doesn’t even smile. He looks almost frighteningly serious when he tilts his head and says softly, "Is that not what they call you? The Hero of Gallows Gap? The Saviour of Trelayne?" Ringil swallows hard, his throat suddenly tight. Seethlaw continues, "You didn’t need me or anyone else to live according to your nature. You were born a Hero, and you were always going to act as such if anyone around you needed one." And then he concludes quietly, in an oddly breathless voice. "Even when I met you, you were being your cousin’s hero, after all."

There’s a pain here, that Ringil doesn’t understand, but which finally breaks through his resolve. He moves a little closer, extends an arm, lays a couple of fingers on one of the white forearms wrapped around the gathered knees. The intensity in Seethlaw’s dark eyes is only matched by the tension Ringil can feel running through his body, even with such a light touch.

"You’re right," Ringil whispers. "I got a desperate bunch to hold the pass at Gallows Gap even though it shouldn’t have been possible. I got the people of Trelayne to believe that we could save our city even when the odds were stacked against us. And yeah, I fought a secret cabal, and a fucking dwenda right out of legends, and I walked through the stinking Grey Places themselves, just to bring my cousin back home because my mother asked me to."

He slides even closer, his legs tangling with Seethlaw’s now. He raises his other hand, drags the back of his wet knuckles down the side of Seethlaw’s face, grabs the delicate chin in a firm hold. "Let’s be clear: I have no desire to become anyone’s king. But if you want me to be your hero…" He traces the line of Seethlaw’s lower lip with his thumb. "Then you just have to ask. You know that, right?"

Seethlaw’s breath is short and uneven against Ringil’s fingers, but there’s no hesitation in his voice when he replies, "Now I do, yes."

Ringil’s heart turns over so hard and so fast, he briefly worries he might start crying. Instead, he pulls on Seethlaw’s chin while leaning forward. Their lips crash together in a rough, almost frantic kiss. Seethlaw’s fingers burrow into Ringil’s hair; his tongue slides into Ringil’s mouth. He’s trembling, and a great shudder runs through him when Ringil wraps his hands around each side of his neck - but then he takes a deep breath, and it’s like some great weight fell from his shoulders and his chest was freed from some vice. He sits straighter, and Ringil can almost feel the tension slide off him like the bathwater, wave after wave…

And when he pulls back, Ringil’s heart does another little somersault at the sight of the weak, tiny smile on his face. It speaks of relief far more than contentment, but it’s real, and right now, that’s more than enough. They’ve finally had their first difficult discussion without anyone getting hurt in the process, and that’s almost a miracle, so Ringil will take it. He doesn’t fight back the grin trying to smear itself onto his lips. He lets go of Seethlaw’s neck, but grabs his hand instead, even as he scoots backwards to the other side of the tub.

"Come here."

Seethlaw stares at him in confusion, and Ringil has to tug on the fingers in his hold before the dwenda moves. Ringil settles himself, sitting comfortably with his back leaning against the far wall of the tub, his legs splayed and his arms open - but _still_ Seethlaw doesn’t seem to understand the unspoken message. He doesn’t look reluctant, just completely at a loss as to what Ringil has in mind.

… Just like before, when Ringil suggested they take this bath together, and Seethlaw just blinked at him in puzzlement.

Ringil’s chest squeezes when the pieces finally slot together into place. Sadness and pity briefly mix together in his mind as he wonders just what kind of relationship Seethlaw and Cormorion had, if they never did anything so simple and obvious, but he firmly dismisses them while setting out to bodily manipulate Seethlaw, with a push here and a pull there, until the dwenda is firmly ensconced in Ringil’s grip, back to chest, with Ringil’s arms holding him tight around the waist.

He’s tense again by now, but Ringil nuzzles into his hair, bites on a delicate earlobe, lays a kiss against the corner of the sharp jaw - and Seethlaw melts, his stance loosening until he’s slipping lower into the water, just enough to lay his head on Ringil’s shoulder. He sighs, deep and soft, lays his hands onto Ringil’s arms around his ribcage, and squeezes.

Ringil squeezes back, and finally, finally, they fall immobile and silent, content and close, as they watch the Moon rise up to the clouds outside through the mirror turned window, and bathe the whole place in a silvery glow.

And if Seethlaw mistakes Ringil’s whispered, "Beautiful," for a comment on the view… Well, it doesn't really matter, does it?

**


	35. Archeth

Archeth just stared and stared at Ringil. She'd heard the words just fine, but she couldn't make her brain believe them. _A Warhelm? No way. No fucking way!_ She searched, relentlessly, into the face of the man who was both her best friend and her best enemy at the moment, unable to decide if she was more desperate to find the slightest trace of a lie, of a dissimulation, or if on the contrary, she wanted him to reassure her that he was speaking the truth - the amazing, almost painfully too beautiful truth. _A Warhelm..._

Sounds of people fidgeting started to rise around her. She vaguely wondered which one would take it upon himself to break the silence. In the end, it was Egar, cautious and frustrated and more than a bit impatient. "All right, so you three obviously know what a Warhelm is supposed to be, but the rest of us don't. Care to enlighten us?"

Archeth pressed her lips in answer to Ringil's raised eyebrow, but nodded nonetheless. It felt like an immense effort to open her mouth and speak the words, in clipped, toneless bursts. "Same principle as a Helmsman. A spirit of the Void, encased in an iron body, and given a task. Helmsmen are charged with manning ships or other places, such as An-Monal. Warhelms..." _It's in the name, isn't it?_ And indeed, she heard the soft gasps and the squirming as the men around her reached the obvious conclusion. "Warhelms are charged with making war."

She saw Shanta frown from the corner of her eye, but it was Rakan who spoke up next. "War? But— " He hesitated, stopped himself. That was unusual enough to make her pay attention and push him.

"But what, Captain?"

"Milady... I mean no offence to your people, I assure you - but they always said they were backing the Empire with every bit of knowledge and technology they had available..." His voice trailed off again, as he couldn't force himself to outright accuse the Kiriath of lying or passively betraying the interests of the Empire.

Still, Archeth felt the wild hope in her chest crumble just the same.

Because Rakan was right. She could understand not wanting to use a Warhelm against humans, in the Tribal wars for Imperial unity. But she knew for a fact that her people had grown desperate when the _Lizards_ had appeared and shown themselves to be so much more lethal and enduring than anything they could have imagined.

She finished Rakan's thought for him, flatly. "Yes, a Warhelm would have been _damn useful,_ especially in the war against the Scaled Folk."

Her people had forgotten so much about their past, but surely they would still remember the existence of something as exceptional as a Warhelm? And even if the Kiriath themselves didn't, then the Helmsmen would? Unless... Ah, of course.

"It's dead." She stared Ringil down, almost resentful of the bitter disappointment she was feeling welling up in her. Why did he have to go and give her such hope, when quite clearly, "I have no reason to doubt that there's a Warhelm somewhere, but it must be out of commission in one way or another, or the Helmsmen, at the very least, would have remembered its existence, and pointed it out to my father and Grashgal when we had so much need for any and all help we could find."

Ringil had been there; he _knew_ how dire the situation had been, how the Kiriath had been willing to try _anything_ to protect the Empire and even the League, and how close they had come to failing anyway. They would not have rejected such a monumental possibility as a Warhelm without discussing it at enough lengths that she would at least have noticed that some kind of argument was taking place.

But they hadn't discussed it, because there was nothing to discuss in the first place. Either that Warhelm didn't exist, or it was dead. How Ringil could think that she would fall into such an obvious trap was almost insul—

Pelmarag's musical voice rose quietly in the heavy silence. "You're assuming the Kiriath down South still had access to that Warhelm." Archeth blinked. "It was, however, built to fight my people, and those wars took place in the North of this continent, not the South."

She felt the first ripples of understanding move through her mind, hint at the truth... She chased them down, urged them on. The North? Well, that made sense, now that he mentioned it. And indeed, the place still bore the scars of that conflict, millennia later— _Oh._

That was her clue, wasn't it?

"The Wastes," she whispered. "It's up in the Wastes." It was so obvious!

This time, she didn't even hear Pelmarag's answer, covered as it was by the various exclamations coming from all around the table.

Ringil only smiled faintly in approval at her, and the way that simple motion calmed her anxiety, helped her regain a mental footing she hadn't even fully realised she'd lost, created a new quiet dismay within her. Despite her best intentions, she was very much hanging onto him after all. It was as though she needed him to hold her hand and steady her as she walked over some rickety gangplank, to board some mystery ship of his that would take her on a wondrous trip to a fabulous destination. Somewhere deep in the back of her mind, she vaguely snorted at the mental image of Gil as a ship captain - Ringil Eskiath was a lot of things, but a seaman was not one of them - but she couldn't deny that right now, the comparison was not so far-fetched after all.

Gil had thrown his lot with the dwenda. He had lived with them, learnt from them. He knew more about them than any other human being currently alive. He had given them his mind and heart and loyalty. He wanted to give them what they yearned for, and he seemed willing to pour in as much of his own energy as necessary to achieve that goal. He knew where they wanted to go, metaphorically speaking, and he wanted to go there with them.

... And after last night, even if she hadn't faced it until now, let alone admitted to it, so did she. Oh, she didn't think she was as trapped as he was, not quite yet - brief glimpse of dark eyes blazing red and gold in the firelight, of long, sculpted lips smiling softly, even briefer remembered touch of bone-white, cold fingertips on her cheek, and _oh, who are you kidding, Archidi!?_ \- but there was no denying that right now, there was very little she could imagine she would refuse to at least contemplate in order to give... to give the dwenda what they wanted.

Except that she had no idea as to how to proceed. She could certainly do with Ringil's guidance in that unknown territory.

Her men quickly calmed down, though Rakan's voice was still full of angry disbelief when he demanded, "Are you saying you want to take the lady kir-Archeth into the _Wastes_!?"

She repressed a sigh along with the annoyed impulse to remind him that he wasn't her mother. Nantara had always been fiercely opposed to the very idea of Archeth going anywhere near the Wastes; she would be horrified right now. _But you're not here anymore, Mum. And neither are Dad, or Grashgal, or anyone._ Archeth had paid the highest price for it, but the fact remained that there was nobody left to stop her from going into the Wastes and exploring them to her heart's content if that was what she wanted to do.

Still, though... She shifted her gaze from Ringil to Pelmarag. "Be honest: how dangerous would this be?"

The dwenda cocked his head. "To whom?"

She was briefly stumped." Erm... To everyone who would be coming?"

He hummed. "The trip through the Wastes itself would not be anywhere as dangerous as you might imagine. Some of us have worked over the millennia on creating and maintaining clear paths through them. All in all, I would say that this aspect would be on par with the risk inherent to sea travel: there's always a possibility that a storm will tear your ship apart and leave you to drown, but few consider this a valid enough reason to dismiss that mode of transportation altogether."

She nodded, and immediately heard Rakan shift. "My lady—"

She didn't let him finish. "Captain, do you think we would be any safer in Ennishmin, in the heart of dwenda territory?"

She didn't even need to look at him to know he was backing down. She was right, and he knew it: wherever they went, as long as they stood amidst the dwenda, they would be in theoretical mortal danger. In fact, she herself should have realised sooner that this couldn't be a simple trap, because the dwenda didn't need to drag them all the way up into the Wastes to get rid of them if that was when they meant to do. Ennishmin, as was the original plan, would work just as well.

There were, however, at least two details which troubled her. One was the way Pelmarag's answer had focused only on the trip through the Wastes, with not a word about the destination. The other, of course, was Ringil's earlier, vigorous objection to what Pelmarag had implied was this very proposal.

"Then what's the catch?" she asked, looking at the dwenda opposite her.

Pelmarag's lips bent in what was not quite a smile. "The catch is the Warhelm's reaction. _You_ would likely be safe enough, milady, but there's no telling how it would treat any of the rest of us."

Ah. Of course.

"More precisely" — Ringil now, not even trying to hide his distaste — "you and your team should be fine, seeing as they are human and, well, working for you."

But the dwenda might not be so welcome, nor would the one human working for them. "Then why even make that offer?" Archeth asked around a frown—

— right before realising that she already knew the answer. She had _seen_ it happen, hadn't she? She had been right there, privileged and only witness to the moment when that decision was taken, even if she hadn't understood it at the time.

Ringil huffed. "Because _some people_ " — he shot a very sour glance towards the door to the next room, and Archeth's heart kicked against her ribcage at the thought that Risgillen might be here, right here, even if only her brother's voice had filtered out earlier — "think that you need to learn as much as you possibly can in order for these negotiations to have any worth. That it would be" — his voice took on the tone of someone repeating words they'd eavesdropped on — "pointless and dishonest to obtain any cooperation from you, if that cooperation was based upon deliberately maintained ignorance."

To Archeth, who knew him well enough, he sounded resigned and dejected by the time he finished, in that way people did when they were forced to admit to a point they would much rather dismiss or deny.

Rakan, however, didn't quite snort but the disbelief was evident in his voice all the same when he countered, "Are we truly supposed to believe that your dwenda acolytes would put themselves into danger simply to grant the lady kir-Archeth access to a better source of information?"

Ringil shrugged morosely. "I'm perfectly aware that it sounds insane, Captain, but yes, they would. That's exactly what they are offering."

Archeth didn't need to look at Rakan to know he didn't accept a word of it. Nor, most likely, did Egar, Shanta, and probably even Galat.

And nor _should_ she.

Yet, she did.

She believed it, whole-heartedly, without the shadow of a doubt. She believed it because Ringil did, and because after meeting Risgillen and Seethlaw herself, she understood _why_ he did.

And in turn, she understood why he objected so strenuously to the idea.

She locked gazes with him again, and sure enough, she saw it, deep in his eyes, now that she knew to look for it. _Fear._ He was afraid - not for himself, but for the dwenda. Afraid that their ridiculous integrity - that same integrity which precluded Seethlaw just walking away from the shady contracts he had made with people who had no power to harm him in retaliation - might cost them their lives up in the Wastes. Afraid of what the Warhelm they said existed out there might do to them. Afraid to lose them, to lose Seethlaw. And she was in no position to blame him, considering how her heart raced and her chest tightened when she contemplated the possibility of her people's captive Void spirit unleashing its lethal fury upon Risgillen...

"We'll find a way." Her voice shook just a little as she stared into Ringil's eyes, and spoke to him, and him only. "Just get me there, and I'll find a way." _I won't let them die, Gil. Do your part, and I'll do mine, somehow. That's a promise!_

Once again, she heard the protests rise around them as the others understood that she had already stepped into what they still considered an obvious trap. She didn't care. She only held Ringil's gaze, only watched him sag a little in his chair - only saw him desperately hang onto her in return, onto her unvoiced vow... and nod, helplessly, miserably.

She raised her voice, just barely. "Then it's settled." The protests around her fizzled out. She was Commander of this mission, and as much as they knew that she respected their various inputs as her advisers, they also knew better than to keep arguing once she'd taken a decision. "We will go and meet with that Warhelm, if it's still there. We'll see what it has to say, what light it can shed on this situation, if any." She nodded, to herself as much as to everyone else, as her mind started to align the very next steps on their path. "Gil, how long would it take you to prepare your side of the expedition?"

As happened far too often, Ringil and Pelmarag exchanged a glance, before Ringil answered. "Technically, we would be ready to leave right away." Archeth blinked. She felt the same surprise run through her companions, but none of them said anything. Ringil obviously picked up on it, though, because he added, "The dwenda are wanderers. They are always on the go. They don't need to prepare for such travels, because it's what they _do._ "

That... didn't really explain anything, which Ringil seemed to realise; he shook his head, rather ruefully, and went back to the original topic, "So _they_ would be ready, but the problem here is me. I'm not quite done with my... ah, other negotiations." The ones with the League cabal... His gaze and tone turned harsh. "But they should have been over a while ago, quite frankly, and I'm getting sick of humouring that bunch of ghouls. Time to put an end to this masquerade and let them deal with the fallout if they insist on being too stubborn for their own good."

Archeth refrained from commenting. Strictly speaking, _how_ Ringil severed the dwenda's ties with the League cabal was none of her business as long as it didn't involve doing harm to the Empire, and she had no worries whatsoever on that respect. All that mattered was that he did undo any threatening alliance, and he seemed to desire that outcome just as much as she did.

Ringil concluded, then. "If I have my way, and I intend to, I'll be ready to leave the day after tomorrow. What about you?"

Archeth briefly gaped. That left her and her team less than _two days_ to... to... She frowned. "What _should_ we prepare, on our side?"

This time, Ringil grinned. "Pretty much nothing. You might want to review everything you know about the Wastes, obviously, and about Warhelms, but as far as physical preparations go, you can leave that to us. As I said, the Aldrain are wanderers by nature; they'll take care of the food and accommodations. Just bring a change of clothes, your own horses, and whatever books or other material you think you might need."

Archeth saw her own bafflement reflected on Shanta's face next to Ringil. Who had ever heard of leaving on such an expedition with so little advance warning!? "What about..." She was floundering. Shanta took over, quietly.

"I beg your pardon, my lords, but what about settling on a route, for example?"

Ringil stood up and went to pick up something waiting on top of the pile of documents at the end of the table. He came back with a map of the continent, and laid it out between them, over the usual map of Ennishmin. He settled his finger on Trelayne, and started moving it. "There's only one route up to the Wastes from here, the same one the '52 expeditionary took. We leave the city through the Eastern gate, then we follow the river Trel up to Gallows Waters. We cross the Gap, and from there we go almost straight north through the Wastes. The dwenda have laid their own paths all over the place, so it shouldn't be as hard for us as it was for the expeditionary. Our destination is" — he tapped his finger on the map — "here."

_Here._ Archeth stared. She hadn't gone on the '52 expeditionary, but she'd studied the reports about it. The point Ringil was indicating was well beyond the limits of where the expeditionary had reached. It was, however, directly on the coast. She frowned. "I would have thought it would be more inland?"

It was Pelmarag who replied this time. He shook his head. "No. The Warhelm is located inside a fortress built outside at sea."

Archeth blinked. _Outside at sea?_ And then she rallied. "Wait, you mean like An-Naranash?" It occurred too late to her that the dwenda would probably not know what—

"Yes." It was all she could do to stop herself from openly gaping once more. "Though it's much bigger than An-Naranash."

_How?_ How did a dwenda know about... But then again... _Why would he not?_ He'd been in the south. He'd lived with the Horse Tribes. So was it so surprising that he should also know about An-Naranash? In fact - Archeth's heart beat painfully hard at the thought - maybe he even knew what had happened there? Where that one lost Kiriath group had gone? Why they had abandoned the place?

Speaking of which... She looked down at the map, then up at Pelmarag. "Is it as deserted as An-Naranash as well? Or" — a wild, _wild_ hope filling her once again — "are there still Kiriath living there?" Another tribe, long-forgotten but just waiting to be reunited with the last—

"No." Pelmarag's voice was gentler, his smile more melancholy as he crushed her newborn dream back into oblivion. "It's empty of any human or Kiriath beings, I'm afraid. However, it's not like An-Naranash either. An-Naranash had lost even its Helmsman. An-Kirilnar still has its Warhelm, which actively protects it against any intrusion attempt."

An-Kirilnar? "City of..." Archeth briefly hesitated, looking for the best translation. "Phantom hunters?"

Pelmarag gave her an odd look before glancing away, and she remembered: one name for the Aldrain was the Vanishing Folk, wasn't it? The _phantoms,_ after their habit of slipping in and out of the real world into the Ageless Realm. Still, though, 'the city of those who hunt the dwenda' was a grim and exceptionally to-the-point name, so different from the usually ornate ones the Kiriath gave their ships or settlements. But then again, An-Kirilnar was a war fortress, guarded by a Warhelm, and built in the middle of a terrible global conflict: waxing poetic when naming it had probably seemed inappropriate to whoever had taken that decision back then.

Shanta's voice cut into her musings, in a tone which didn't quite manage to hide his doubts. "If it's out at sea, then how come nobody's ever reported seeing it?"

"Heh." Ringil vaguely waved his hand over the map. "Like who?" He pointed to the Hironish Isles, north-west of where the Kiriath fortress was supposed to be. "The closest people live there, and they never go closer to the Wastes than they absolutely need to." He traced a route through the sea from the Isles to Trelayne, which arched well away from the coast all the way around. "That's the route everyone takes." He then placed his hand over the sea at large west of the Isles. "And that's where they do most of their hunting." He brought his finger back east of the Isles and traced a large ellipse there, which included almost all the channel and half of the Wastes. "Nobody ever voluntarily goes there. The whole place is considered cursed."

_Which it pretty much is,_ Archeth finished mentally. The weapons the Kiriath had once deployed there had contaminated everything, from the flora to the fauna to the ground and the air themselves. She remembered the difficulties she'd had, a hundred and fifty years ago, finding a ship to take her there, and how she and her companions had then been promptly abandoned by the terrified crew. It made sense, seen that way, that nobody would ever have found that Kiriath fortress. You would pretty much have to wreck right there to see it, and once you were wrecked, how did you go back home through the utterly inhospitable Wastes? And even if by some miracle you managed to survive that trek, nobody would believe a word of whatever you claimed to have seen there. It would all be put down to the maleficent influence of the Wastes, making you see things that didn't exist. Yes, it made sense.

"All right, then," she muttered, almost only to herself. She reached out and retraced the road Ringil had followed earlier. "East out of the city, up the river to Gallows Gap, and then straight north through the Wastes." She looked up at Ringil. "How long do you suppose that would take?"

Ringil shrugged. "That's hard to say. It's going to depend on a variety of factors. Several weeks, for sure, but how many, no one could tell."

Archeth shifted her gaze to Pelmarag. "And you can take care of the logistics all the way there, no matter how long it takes?"

He didn't hesitate. "Absolutely. Food for the people, food for the horses, sleeping accommodations, scouting and securing the road... Anything else we should look into?"

A small sigh escaped Shanta's lips then. His face was openly wistful when Archeth turned to him. He met her eyes and forced a sad smile onto his face. "I feel like I've gone back to being a child, when someone would dangle a treat over my head and then snatch it away."

Ah, yes... The old man could no more accompany the rest of them to the Wastes than he could have gone to Ennishmin. Archeth could only imagine how much it must break his engineer's heart to be kept out of a trip so full of scientific curiosities...

Next to him, Ringil raised an eyebrow. "A problem?"

Shanta shrugged. "Nothing more dramatic than old age, my lord. I'm simply in no shape to consider such a long ride."

Galat coughed not so discreetly then. "Hum, my lady?"

She shifted further to look at him. "Yes?"

His face was rather pink, and he seemed clearly embarrassed. "I... erm, I'm afraid I, uh..."

She was lost for a second and then understood what his problem was, and her heart fell. "Oh. You too."

He turned bright red. "I'm afraid so."

Archeth gritted her teeth as she forced herself to relocate her gaze onto the map on the table. It wasn't the un-hardened Invigilator's fault that he shouldn't be suitable to such an unexpected expedition, but—

"I apologise for repeating myself" — Ringil was indeed putting on his most courteous manners — "but is there a problem, my lady?"

Archeth sighed, and looked up at him. "Yes," she said flatly. "Leaving my lord Shanta behind would be one thing. He's only here as my personal adviser. But Holy Invigilator Galat is the Citadel's representative. If I leave Trelayne with you and the dwenda, to go meet some supposed Kiriath Warhelm whose existence my people never mentioned to me, up in the Wastes where all kinds of sorceries are rumoured to take place, _without_ Galat to act as my guarantee that nothing untoward happened, then I might as well just throw everything we would learn or accomplish up there straight into the trash bin as far as the Citadel will be concerned once I go home. And if the Citadel won't go for it, then His Radiance will have no choice but to follow their lead." She swallowed bitterly, and concluded, "Simply put, there's no point even going on this trip if Invigilator Galat isn't coming along."

"... Ah."

She chanced a glance at Galat; the poor man looked utterly miserable. Then her attention was drawn back to Ringil, who was now leaning over to Pelmarag, who was whispering something in his ear. She saw Ringil frown, nod once, and murmur a short answer back she didn't catch. It was Pelmarag's turn then to nod, before he stood up and walked to the side-door without a word.

Ringil watched him go, before looking back at Archeth, with a very sober expression on his face. "We might have a solution to offer you. But it would necessitate the use of dwenda magic. Would that be acceptable to you?"


	36. Ringil

"No way." Ringil knows he's gaping, but he can't help it. "No fucking way!"

When Seethlaw told him that the contents of Pelmarag's room were but a small fraction of what the dwenda had gathered over the years, and that Ashgrin had built entire new rooms to hold those collections, Ringil could not have come even close to imagining the proper size of it all.

He's seen warehouses. His tutors took him very early on to visit his family's properties downriver. Later, he misspent several years of his youth illegally working his way in and out of various places in that district and in the Salt Warren for Grace-of-Heaven, Poppy or Slab. He _knows_ warehouses, knows how big they can get, how they can make your head turn with dizziness as the very concept of _distance_ slips between your brain's grasp because such spans are one thing out there on the plains, in the marsh, or at sea, but they don't make sense _inside_ a building. He knows how easy it is to get utterly _lost_ between the rows and lines of merchandise and to just wander around stupidly looking for a sign, any sign, of where the damned exit or even just a fucking _window_ might be.

So he _knows_ warehouses, all right?

But nothing could have prepared him for _that._

He'd expected… He's not quite sure what exactly? Some kind of cross between a warehouse and a museum? Maybe even something reminiscent of the vast domes at An-Monal where the Kiriath piled and stuffed everything they built, whether they still used it or kept it around "in case they might need it" or even because "it's junk but there's _something_ in it, I'll have to get back to it someday" and they never did.

And in a very round-about way, he was right: this place looks like the storage rooms of An-Monal - in the same manner as a ship's cargo hold might look like one of those caves the sea ate out of the cliffs at Lanatray, just because they are both big and smell of the sea. So yes, just like down in An-Monal, this room is big, is full of _stuff_ , and it reeks of unhuman logic and technology.

Other than that, it's nothing like anything Ringil has ever seen.

For one thing, he's used to things being piled on the floor, whether in neat stacks or in odious, messy, jumbled hills. The Kiriath even have cranes anchored on the ceiling to pull those bunches apart when they need to look for some particular item buried somewhere.

Here… "Are those things _floating_ in the air??" He hears the outraged disbelief in his voice, but he can't help it - not when there are entire pieces of furniture high up over his head, held there by literally nothing he can see! Chairs gathered around tables, beds and their side cabinets, dressers and cupboards and desks, piled or filled with tools and dinnerware and all kinds of art pieces, sculptures in stone or wood, paintings and carpets in bright colours or muted sand tones, and so, so much more... All of it, just hanging in the air all over and around the place.

"No." By contrast, Seethlaw doesn't seem in the least disturbed. He's guiding Ringil through the floor level of the maze, keeping him close with a hand wrapped loosely around Ringil's wrist. The reason why becomes obvious when he explains, "Ashgrin only made the walls invisible."

Ringil refrains from pointing out that there's no such thing as "only making walls invisible", and instead waits expectantly as Seethlaw spells a glyph with his free hand and whispers something under his breath - and suddenly, they are surrounded by endless glass panels, shimmering softly in the cool light oozing from the outer walls.

Ringil can now make out rooms and corridors and staircases, the whole internal architecture of the place revealed in translucent surfaces. He can see how the items are not gathered haphazardly as it may have seemed at first sight, but in fact are carefully arranged within what looks very much like thematic areas.

Now that Ringil can see where to go - or more precisely, where _not_ to go - Seethlaw lets his wrist go. Silently, Ringil reaches out to the retreating hand and grabs it back. Seethlaw doesn't seem to react, but when Ringil spreads his fingers out, the dwenda readily intertwines his own with Ringil's.

Ringil smiles, doesn't say a word, squeezes the cool hand once, and keeps going.

Walking up a transparent staircase is unnerving at first, but unlike the bridges, the glass doesn't give under Ringil's feet. It feels just as solid as the windows in the bedrooms, and soon enough, the only lingering problem is a faint sense of vertigo when he looks down and sees the real floor so far below. But the feel of Seethlaw's hand in his is enough to remind him that here as well, no matter what may happen, he's safe.

Safe... Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he wonders at how quickly he's become accustomed to this idea, at what it means about himself, about Seethlaw, about the Aldrain people as a whole. Mostly, though, he strives to take it - this idea, this _knowledge_ that he's safe here with the dwenda - in stride, to make it a part of his new universe, because he's going to need it, he's going to have to rely on it, if he's to have any chance of bringing a better future for everyone. After all, if he can't even depend on the dwenda and their promises, then he can't depend on anyone at all, and he's quite simply wasting his time. So depend on them he will, and that starts with believing them when they expressly say or imply that he's safe somewhere.

He therefore ignores the transparent floor, and instead carefully looks around as they slowly wander down corridors, past various chambers full of artifacts unlike anything he's ever seen.

"Seethlaw…" There's awe and wonder in his tone. "Do you have any idea how much this place would be worth to historians?"

He's more than a little surprised by the dejected little sound Seethlaw makes. "It's not quite that simple."

"Well, yes, I imagine the logistics would be—" Ringil stops himself; Seethlaw is shaking his head.

"It's not that," the dwenda explains, and there's a definite note of sadness in his voice now. "Pel's _tried_ to share some of these things with people before. People he trusted. People who'd _said_ they were interested." He stops walking, turns towards Ringil. "But it almost never went well." He hesitates. His voice is strangely guarded now, and his gaze skitters back and forth between Ringil and the wall behind him. "It seems that even historians, even men of knowledge and science, like to build their own beliefs about the past, about how things were, and they don't react well to the truth being different from what they are accustomed to."

_"I've learnt that the tongues of men are not much leashed by concern for accuracy or truth. It seems lies come very easily to your race. They lie even to themselves if it will make the world around them more bearable."_ This is the same old argument, isn't it? This at least clarifies why Seethlaw is acting so strangely suddenly: Ringil has not quite shown an ability, in the past, to keep a cool head when confronted to this line of thought, has he?

So Ringil just briefly squeezes the fingers held in his own, hums, and adds, "I imagine that Pel didn't exactly explain how he got by all that stuff either, did he?"

Seethlaw frowns, stares blindly over Ringil's shoulder. "No, he didn't." He swallows, and suddenly his gaze is back on Ringil, pinning him. "He _couldn't._ Even to save a life, even his _own_ life, he couldn't have revealed who and what he was." He opens his mouth to say more, but then closes it and shakes his head. "It's not my place to tell you about this. I'm sorry. I shouldn't—"

He shuts up as Ringil places two fingers across his lips and huffs. "You guys are going to give me a headache, you know that?" Ringil grins ruefully when Seethlaw's eyes widen in confusion. He elaborates, "None of you wants to tell their own story, and all of you feel like it's not your place to share anyone else's. Don't mistake me: I sure wish humans were half as respectful of each other's personal space as this" — he pulls his fingers away from Seethlaw's lips, curves his hand around his jaw instead — "but it also leaves me wondering just _who_ is going to tell me what I need to know, you know?"

He tries his best not to make it into an accusation. The way Seethlaw doesn't scowl or turn away seems to indicate he succeeded. Seethlaw appears to be honestly pondering the matter. "I can see how this would be frustrating, yes…" He sighs, rubs his cheek against Ringil's hand, and Ringil marvels once again at how fine and soft the stubble there is. "You have to understand: we've never found ourselves in such a place before. And…" A glance away, a hitch in his breath. "We never expected to."

_We never expected that I would find a fully-grown hero, and bring him here, and have to explain even the most basic things to him, let alone our entire history._

Yes, Ringil can see how that would be just a tad overwhelming.

"For what it's worth, I never expected to find myself in such a situation either." He's grinning as he says it, and Seethlaw smiles back before planting a kiss into the palm of his hand, and turning around to take him deeper into Pelmarag's museum.

 

* * *

 

Ringil is thumbing through a collection of sketches depicting the daily life of a long-gone steppe tribe when he feels it: like a faintly musical itch in the back of his mind, not unpleasant, certainly not painful, but also impossible to ignore.

Seethlaw is draped over Ringil's back, with his arms around his waist, looking at the drawings over his shoulder and translating Pelmarag's scribbled notes and carefully penned legends when Ringil points to them. That up close, he can't miss the way Ringil stiffens a little, looks up from the papers in his hands, and briefly shakes his head in a vain attempt to clear it from the sudden buzzing. "You can hear it?" he asks quietly.

Ringil stops moving and frowns. "What is it?"

"Someone just arrived," Seethlaw replies while detaching himself from Ringil. "Probably—" Another signal goes through them; Ringil could swear it feels slightly different. Seethlaw nods minutely. "Yes, Tal. It was the likeliest possibility, since the rest of us are all here."

Ringil carefully puts the bundle of sketches back in place on the bookcase where he found it. "Another resident of the house, then?" he asks as he turns to follow Seethlaw.

Seethlaw hums briefly. "Not quite. Unlike the rest of us, his home base is not here. Still, he visits often enough that he has his own room. I'm surprised he wasn't called in earlier, considering…" His voice trails off, and he doesn't sound particularly happy with where his thoughts are taking him.

They climb the stairs down to the entrance of the warehouse. Ringil keeps his voice light as he pushes, "Who is he, exactly?"

"Pel's best friend."

Ringil raises an eyebrow, even if Seethlaw, walking before him, can't see it. "I would have thought that would be Ashgrin?"

Seethlaw shakes his head. "Definitely not. Ashgrin is Pel's lover. That's vastly different."

Ringil keeps quiet. He's not ignorant in the least as to how the two concepts are rarely linked among humans, but for some reason, it seems he had expected otherwise from the Aldrain - though on reflection, he can't see why. At least, he consoles himself, his confusion regarding Pelmarag and Ashgrin's exact relationship has been cleared up for good. _One step at a time, Gil. One step at a time._

Once outside the museum, they make their way to a high terrace where, sure enough, Ashgrin and Pelmarag are sitting at a table with a dwenda who isn't Risgillen, even though he seems strangely familiar to Ringil all the same.

And then the newcomer turns his head to look at the pair of them, and it takes every inch of self-control Ringil has in his body not to stop in his tracks right there and then as he _recognises_ the dwenda. He forces himself to keep walking, and to not let show on his face just how fast his mind is suddenly rushing, or how strongly his heart is beating. He's certainly _damn_ glad that Seethlaw wasn't holding his hand or even standing too close to him, because he would have undoubtedly noticed Ringil's alarm, and how is Ringil supposed to explain it?

Tal is what Seethlaw called the visitor.

Atalmire of Talonreach is what Ringil knows him as. Storm-caller, and Risgillen's partner-in-crime, both in her attempt to destroy Yhelteth, and then in her plan to resurrect Cormorion through Ringil.

_Calm down, Gil. There's no reason he should be any more dangerous to you than the other four._ Atalmire is a storm-caller, yes, but if the compulsion holds against the Dark Court themselves, then surely it will hold even against Clan Talonreach's specific brand of magic? Surely, even their connection to the Source, the Book-Keepers' own sister, won't be able to break through the being of light's protection on Ringil and his thoughts?

_Only one way to know._

Ringil steps forward in Seethlaw's wake. Atalmire has left his chair - brief memory of a time when he was limping, courtesy of Ringil - and is extending his hands to Seethlaw in what Ringil recognises as the same kind of greeting Seethlaw and Risgillen exchanged, all the way back in the Grey Places. Ringil watches, closely, and listens as they exchange a few words in their tongue and in a soft, warm tone. Both of them are smiling, and Seethlaw seems to have forgotten whatever misgivings troubled him back in the museum.

And then the storm-caller is turning aside, and Ringil pulls on the corners of his lips to mimic a smile as best he can.

If he notices anything out of the ordinary beyond Ringil's nervousness, Atalmire doesn't let it show - which, considering what Ringil remembers of him, strongly points to the likelihood that he indeed has no misgivings at all. The Atalmire he met was never any good at hiding his emotions. He was darkly impatient and easily annoyed in Afa'marag, and then coldly resentful in Trelayne. Here and now, by contrast, his blank gaze may be heavy to hold as he steps closer, but there's no trace of suspicion or concern on his face or in his demeanour.

"My lord."

Ringil blinks, and his tight nerves make him jerk, when the storm-caller _bows_ before him. He can only watch stupidly as Atalmire straightens up and continues, "It is an honour to meet you."

Ringil feels his sense of reality splintering. There are too many diverging lines tearing his mind apart. The storm-caller's voice is the same as he remembers, but his attitude could not be any more different. Atalmire is sporting a small smile now, and there's an openly mischievous glint in his eyes that's eerily reminiscent of Pelmarag in his best mood, with none of the irascibility which flowed so freely from him back in Yhelteth or Trelayne. Vaguely, as an almost irrelevant aside, Ringil also notices that the storm-caller's Naomic is not as good as Pelmarag's or Seethlaw's, but that it's certainly a lot better than the Tethanne he once slaughtered in the temple at Afa'marag.

At the same time, over Atalmire's shoulder, Ringil can see Seethlaw frowning in obvious displeasure, and there's an echoing reluctance in Pelmarag's voice when he calls to his friend from the table, a few words in the Aldrain tongue, but sharp and somber this time.

_What the fuck is going on here…?_

Atalmire nods after Pelmarag stops speaking. "My apologies," he answers, though it's not quite clear whether he's addressing Pelmarag or Ringil. By the time he extends his hands to offer the traditional greeting, Ringil is thoroughly reeling in confusion, and can't focus properly on reproducing the moves he observed. He settles on patiently letting Seethlaw correct the position of his fingers, which also provides him with a much-needed distraction from the intense gaze of the storm-caller.

"My name is Atalmire, of Clan Talonreach," the dwenda finally introduces himself, with another one of those smiles which are utterly foreign to Ringil's memories of him.

"Ringil Eskiath." Ringil forces an answering bent on his lips. "Just call me Ringil though."

The storm-caller raises an amused eyebrow, and Ringil once again feels his mind slipping, tripping on the yawning difference between what he's seeing and what he remembers. "Not fond of the family name, are you?"

"Heh." Ringil grimaces. "Not really, no."

Atalmire releases his hands. His lips twitch. His tone is far too light when he concludes, "I daresay you'll fit right in, then."

The stony silence which answers him tells Ringil that whatever point he was trying to make, he must be dreadfully right about it. A few glances confirm that both Seethlaw and Pelmarag are scowling, though this time neither of them says anything. Ashgrin, as usual, is listening impassively - even if Ringil thinks there's just the faintest trace of weariness in the sharp lines of his face. _Can't blame him. Dealing with that lot for millennia must be exhausting sometimes._

"So, Ringil, then." Atalmire is extending a hand towards one of the bridges. "Would you come with me for a walk?"

Ringil sways in surprise - and then understands. He looks over at Seethlaw, who only nods shortly. He pulls another grin as he steps up. "Sure. After you."

 

* * *

 

They go down to the garden. Ringil follows meekly along stairs and bridges, but he speaks up as soon as they set foot on a little paved plaza, with benches set between bushes of luxuriant flowers which fill the place with their heady perfume. "So you're the one they've charged with telling me what I need to know?"

The storm-caller takes them down a narrow path winding under tall trees. He looks and sounds a lot more sober now than he did up on the terrace. "No. They wouldn't impose such a task on anyone. I offered to do it."

"Why?"

"Because it won't be as painful to me as it would be to them."

The simple manner in which he says it sends a shiver running down Ringil's back. _Painful._ Yes, he knows enough about the last war, about Cormorion, to guess that it must have been a painful business indeed. And he's seen far too acutely just how much of a toll it's still taking on Seethlaw millennia later. Still, hearing Atalmire state it so bluntly is disconcerting. _That's because humans would hide this truth, Gil. They would see it as a vulnerability to be denied instead of exposed._ But the dwenda don't lie - not to others, and not even to themselves.

Ringil swallows. "Should I apologise for starting this mess, then?"

Atalmire tilts his head at him. "You didn't start anything. Seethlaw did."

Ringil feels a hot burst of defensiveness rise within him. It must show on his face, because the storm-caller quickly continues, in an appeasing tone, "I'm not saying he did anything wrong. _Nobody_ did anything wrong. What was bound to happen simply happened."

"Bound?"

"Yes, bound." Atalmire sighs. "From the moment Seethlaw walked among humans again, it was only a matter of time before he found someone like you."

Ringil swallows and keeps silent. Atalmire nods. "He's told you about that, then."

"About his Gift, yes, and Pelmarag's."

"Has he mentioned Cormorion?" The storm-caller's directness brings to Ringil's mind the old warning about being careful what one asks for. He could barely rip a few words out of the others; by contrast, this one seems only too willing to drag Ringil along the path to discovery.

"The last of your Kings?"

Atalmire nods again. "Yes. Did he explain what that entailed?"

Ringil wavers. "… Not really, no."

"Did he or anybody else tell you about the Empire, and the Twilight War?"

Again, Ringil hesitates. "Mostly by allusions, never quite directly."

"Then I suppose we'll have to start there."

 

* * *

 


	37. Archeth

Archeth turned to Rakan and raised her eyebrows in a silent question. In matters of security, he was the one she could most depend on to bring up any and all possible objections. To her surprise, the Throne Eternal merely shrugged. "We have had plenty of proof already that we cannot detect this... magic." The word clearly still left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. "Let alone defend ourselves against it. For all we know, they could impose their _solution_ on us, and make us forget that it was ever a problem in the first place."

Rakan glanced at Ringil then. Archeth followed his example... and was quite taken aback by the clearly embarrassed look on her friend's face. He returned their gazes firmly enough, but his reluctance was obvious when he commented, "You're quite right, Captain. They could relatively easily have done just that, and none of you would have been none the wiser."

"And if we refuse?" asked Rakan, calmly.

Ringil shook his head. "Then we'll find another way. Just because they _can_ do something, doesn't automatically mean they _will_ , or even that they _want_ to. In this particular case, tricking you in such a manner would go against the very goals of the proposed trip." His voice hardened. "If we can't even leave Trelayne with a clean plate, then we might as well not bother at all."

That made sense, Archeth figured. More importantly, it seemed to satisfy Rakan; in fact, she could have sworn that it was more or less what he had been expecting to hear...

She turned back to Galat. "What about you, my lord Invigilator? Would you be open to a magical intervention?" A doubt crossed her mind. "Are you even _allowed_ to contemplate such a possibility?"

Galat had clearly been thinking the matter over already. Carefully, he explained, "Well... Your people, milady, have always repeatedly insisted on the fact that what we mere humans saw as magic in their workings, was nothing more than technology too advanced for us to understand." _Oh..._ Archeth blinked. _Smart!_ "And the Revelation allows for the use of such technology." He turned to Ringil then. "As such, I would be justified in accepting to be helped through the use of Aldrain _technology_ as well."

Ringil looked surprisingly pensive. "You know," he started slowly, "that would in fact be pretty much the exact truth, at least when seen from the dwenda's point of view. They might call it magic because that's what us humans call it, but as far as _they_ are concerned, what they do is nothing more than a simple application of the various physical and biological laws governing this world. Seethlaw once described it to me as 'power and the will to use it'. Granted, it's power we humans" — a graceful nod towards Archeth — "and Kiriath don't have access to because our bodies are not made to handle it, but a book doesn't cease to be a book, or a lamp a lamp, simply because a blind person can't make use of them the way the rest of us do. So yes, describing Aldrain magic as Aldrain technology would in fact be quite accurate."

Pelmarag had come back while Ringil was finishing his explanation. He bent down and spoke directly into his ear. Ringil briefly nodded, and winked at Galat. "It seems our... um... _engineer_ has agreed to share her special brand of technology with you."

Archeth barely noticed Galat's wide-eyed surprise. All she could focus on, suddenly, was that one word Ringil had pronounced - _her_ \- and the way it set her heart speeding... She felt feverish as she listened to the Invigilator ask, in a shocked voice, "Now!?"

Ringil waved a hand. "Whenever you wish. She's here now, and the effect should last several days, maybe even weeks, so today, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow..." He shrugged. "It's as you wish, really."

Galat frowned and bit his lip as he focused on some invisible point in mid-air. "Hmm... All right then!" He looked back up, with a determined air on his face. "We need to know if this will work before we can keep making preparations." He turned to Rakan and Archeth. "And this way, Captain, milady, you will have some time to observe whether my behaviour seems to have been impacted."

Rakan nodded curtly. Archeth took another look at the Invigilator; she had to admit that she was impressed by his courage and his clarity of mind. It seemed that behind his easy-going, affable exterior, Hanesh Galat hid his own brand of steely willpower.

Shanta raised a hand then. "My lord Ringil?"

"Yes?"

"Would this _engineer_ of yours be able to do anything for me as well?"

Ringil frowned. "Well, yes." He shot a confused look around the table. "Wasn't that the plan? To help both of you?"

Shanta smiled mildly. "Actually, no. It was never made clear whether your offer of help was meant only for our lord Invigilator, who is indispensable to the expedition to the Wastes, or whether it extended to me as well."

Ringil waved the objection away. "There's no reason to leave you behind if we can avoid it. Risgillen - the lady Risgillen, I mean - has agreed to treat you both." He hesitated. "Her abilities do not pretend to entirely rewind the effects of time, though, so..."

Shanta finished quietly for him. "So you cannot guarantee that even with her help, I will be strong enough to undertake this voyage after all?" Ringil winced. Shanta chuckled. "That's quite all right. I am grateful merely to be given a chance." His eyes suddenly shone with a thirst Archeth recognised. "And I must admit I am more than a little curious to personally experience this, um, whole new technology."

Ringil snorted. "I wouldn't call it 'whole new'. It's literally thousands of years old."

Shanta opened his mouth to reply - but then Risgillen entered the room, and a hush fell upon everyone around the table.

Archeth fought hard to keep her mouth from falling open in awe. Risgillen, like Pelmarag and like her brother behind her, was back to wearing human civilian clothes, like she had the first day on the balcony, and they fitted her to an indecent degree. Her jerkin was wrapped around her chest in a way which made it impossible to ignore the fullness of her breasts, or the slightness of her waist. Her breeches hugged her flaring hips, before flowing down her long, lean thighs, catching against them with every step. The effect was only enhanced, if possible, by the unselfconscious way she held herself and moved around: there was no sashaying in her walk, no false demure coyness in her stand. Her back was straight, her head held high, her step poised and light like a practised dancer's. She was not wearing her armour, and she didn't seem to carry any weapon, but she looked every bit as much the warrior as Ringil or Rakan ever did, albeit in an infinitely more elegant way.

A gorgeous, impossibly attractive and alien warrior, who radiated all at once danger, sensuality, intelligence, and this underlying layer of age-old wisdom which Archeth remembered from growing up among the Aldrain's equally immortal enemies...

Archeth stood up to welcome her, and hid the half-annoyed, half-mocking smile which wanted to bent her lips when the men in her team struggled to scramble to their feet to follow her lead. They had looked down on Ringil for falling for Seethlaw, but they were doing no better when confronted with Seethlaw's sister, were they?

Risgillen stopped a couple of steps away from the table, and Pelmarag spoke up. "Lady, gentlemen, may I introduce to you the lady Risgillen of Illwrack?" Archeth noticed that he made no mention of Seethlaw, who had stayed back and was tensely surveying the scene from where he stood next to the door they had come through. They all waited a moment as Pelmarag loosely pointed to Archeth and each of her companions in turn, and presented them to Risgillen. Their names felt oddly out of place among the fluid syllables of the Aldrain language, like rough stones interrupting the flow of a stream.

And then Pelmarag was done, and Risgillen was nodding, briefly, almost regally, and Archeth was wondering at the difference between this seemingly haughty attitude, and the much more intimate, much warmer manner the dwenda had exhibited when around Archeth alone. For the first time, it struck her that Pelmarag had meant it when he had said that Risgillen and Seethlaw were Princess and Prince of the Aldrain people. Seethlaw may have had to compromise himself, mixing with bandits and slavers in his attempt to gather the resources he needed, but ultimately, his plan had been that of a ruler working to reconquer his lands. These two were royalty, and it seemed they both took their rank seriously, each in their own way.

As such, Archeth switched to the proper diplomatic codes as well when she briefly bowed, and started, in Tethanne so her people could follow, "My lady, allow me to express our gratitude for your offer of help in this matter." She saw the brief, oh so brief crack of a smile which stretched the beautiful white lips while Pelmarag translated. It figured: if, as Archeth suspected, Risgillen herself was behind the push to offer Archeth a chance to meet that Warhelm up in the Wastes, then it made every sense that the lady would go out of her way to eliminate any obstacle which might show up in the process.

Risgillen and Pelmarag exchanged a few short sentences, he indicating Galat and Shanta, she gesturing - impossibly elegantly - towards one of the long, low couches set against the wall under the large windows. Archeth guessed what she meant, but waited patiently for Pelmarag to translate back.

Galat went first. He was once again wearing his air of determination as he walked to the couch and lay down upon it. He was no soldier or politician: he didn't know how to hide his apprehension, but this only underlined his courage in doing what needed to be done anyway. Archeth briefly thought of how Pashla Menkarak would have behaved in this situation, and had to stifle a very undignified snort. Things would have gone very, very differently indeed!

... But then Risgillen began her work and Archeth forgot about everything that wasn't the Aldrain princess.

It wasn't that there was anything impressive to see. In fact, there was literally nothing at all to observe. Risgillen had knelt at the end of the couch, behind Galat's head, and laid her hands on his forehead and temple. Then she'd closed her eyes, and... Nothing. She was clearly doing _something_ , if Galat's initial gasp, and then the slackness which overtook his traits, were any indication, but there was nothing for the rest of them to _see_ , at least not with human or Kiriath eyes.

This meant that Archeth was free to stare at Risgillen herself, without the dwenda being able to notice her doing so, and without anyone else finding it strange should they spot it. It was only natural, wasn't it? And if there was more, a lot more, to her careful observation of the beautiful face, with its perfectly delicate features, than just political interest, well, who would be able to discern it? Moreover, she was quite convinced that if she could be bothered to check, she would find out that all her companions were doing the exact same thing anyway...

It came as a shock when the blank, dark eyes suddenly opened again and caught Archeth staring straight at them. She quickly looked away, but she still had time to see the _smile_ dawning in them. She kept her pleasure and embarrassment in check as she listened to soft musical voices exchanging a few words, and then to Pelmarag asking Galat how he was feeling.

The Invigilator seemed somewhat confused. He stood up, held his arms aloft, stared at them as though they didn't look like what he would expect. "I'm... fine." He took a few steps. "I feel great!" The mix of surprise and excitement in his voice was clear to hear. He turned to Risgillen and bowed. "Thank you so very much, my lady!"

She inclined her head graciously and switched her attention to Shanta, inviting him with a hand to take Galat's place on the couch.

She worked a lot longer on him. She frowned a few times, too. She even whispered something, once, and Seethlaw crossed the room, silent and swift as a ghost, to go kneel besides her. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and closed his eyes as well. Together they went on, never giving up, and Shanta remained lying there, and everyone else remained watching, in a room where time seemed to have briefly suspended its flight...

When finally all three of them opened their eyes again, and Shanta sat up, it was with the easy strength and balance of a man thirty years his junior. There was no need for anyone to ask him how he felt: the mask of absolute, delighted shock on his face as he turned his hands up and down, and stood up and took long, seemingly effortless strides through the room, was enough to tell everyone that the dwenda "technology" had fulfilled its promise well beyond his wildest expectations.

Shanta bowed low, very low, to Risgillen and her brother, and when he spoke, his voice was infused with the kind of awe Archeth had not heard from him in a very long while. "My lady, my lord, even should this state dissipate by the time night comes this evening, please know that you have the sincerest gratitude of this old man for making him feel young again."

Archeth didn't even bother looking at Rakan. She already knew those borderline traitorous words would necessarily worry him, but they also both knew that it was really a minor problem, compared to the fact that they had just allowed a dwenda to possibly mess with the minds of two of Archeth's advisers. If all they ended up having to deal with was Shanta's grateful deference for granting him a temporary second middle-age strength, they would have to count themselves very lucky indeed.

Hearing Ringil's business-like voice again was almost odd, after the long silence and the eerie experience. "Well, that's one obstacle taken care of, then. Is there anything else we can help you with, lady, gentlemen?" Under the decisiveness, he sounded oddly distracted; Archeth gave him a closer look. His gaze was on Seethlaw, as brother and sister walked back out of the room. He didn't seem worried, though, so Archeth let the matter go.

She quickly checked with all four of her advisers. All of them briefly shook their head when she made eye contact with them. She turned back to Ringil. "Not that we can think of at the moment."

Ringil extended his arm to invite them all back to the war table. He took his own seat, leaned back on it, smiled encouragingly. "Should anything occur to you, no matter how insignificant it might seem, do feel free to send a messenger to this place." The smile tightened. "As I said, I will be busy putting an end to the ridiculous charade that are my other on-going negotiations, but I will still endeavour to answer any question or concern of yours as quickly as I am able to."

Archeth nodded. "Are you still counting on being able to do this within two days?"

"Absolutely. In fact, I intend to be done by tomorrow at noon at the latest." Archeth didn't enquire about the odd specificity of this schedule. If it involved a duel or two, she didn't want to know.

"So you maintain that we could leave on the day after tomorrow?"

" _We_ could, for sure." He turned and extended his palm over to her. "We don't, however, want to make you feel pressured or rushed."

She saw Shanta repress a short amused smile. She didn't bother hiding her own. "Gil... You've promised us a fucking _Warhelm._ If we could leave a week ago, we would."

He grinned back. "I bet you would." He sobered just a little. "So then let's see if we agree on the logistics." He waved back and forth between himself and Pelmarag, sat once more at his side. "We'll take care of the food and accommodations." He indicated Archeth and her people in a circle move. "You bring your own horses, your personal effects, any documentation or other material you wish to have with you. Is this all right with you?"

Archeth once again consulted each of her advisers, one by one, waiting patiently for them to nod before moving to the next. Shanta was apparently already mentally aligning his own line of measures to take; he nodded almost impatiently. Galat didn't hesitate. Egar shrugged and agreed right away as well. Predictably, it was Rakan who took the longest, and looked the most somber, but even he eventually, if a little reluctantly, nodded his approval.

The quiet, open smile on Ringil's lips, and the clear and honest look in his eyes, when Archeth turned back to him, warmed her heart more than she could have expressed, and melted away the last residue of any doubt still lingering in some dark corners of her mind.

This was right. This was good. This was going to work.

A bunch of humans, dwenda, and one half-Kiriath, were going to ride into the goddamn Wastes, to look for a long-forgotten Kiriath Warhelm, and ask for its help in brokering a whole new, unprecedented era of peace between the three people.

It was insane.

It was glorious.

And it was going to work - because Ringil Eskiath thought so, and because Archeth refused to consider the possibility of having to fight Risgillen.

_Sorry, dad. Sorry, Grashgal. This world is my responsibility now, and I'm going to do things my own way._ After all, it wasn't like their way had worked out so well at all, had it?

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note to indicate that I'm more than open to comments of all sorts :) It doesn't even have to be about the fic; I would love to discuss the canon! Squeeing about the characters, wondering about the worldbuilding, anything really. You don't even need an AO3 account: I have anonymous commenting allowed. But above all, thank you for reading :) !


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